


Second

by Sarolonde



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Ghosts, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-01-05 16:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12193707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarolonde/pseuds/Sarolonde
Summary: “So,” Lydia draws out the sound, eyeing them suspiciously. “You guys were attacked in the woods by a werewolf, Allison was bitten and turned, is now in Derek Hale’s pack, being trained by him and helping him track down this ‘Alpha.’ And Stiles, you’re…” She pauses, pressing her lips together and squinting at him ponderingly. “Hanging out with them…?”Stiles gasps, offended, and gesticulates, loudly. “I do research! And they would totally belostwithout me.”“Mm.”He sighs. “How is it I’ve become the joke of this story?”





	1. the beast you made of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [behindthemaddness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthemaddness/gifts).



> Teen Wolf just finish, so I thought I'd rewrite the damn thing. Just the first three seasons. It's going to take me a while, I'm not going to put myself on a schedule for this, but chapters will be long so there will be long breaks between.
> 
> Warning: canon levels of violence, gore and character death. Rating likely to increase, more specific warnings in each chapter.
> 
> This is the story Derek deserved.
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

The Jeep rumbles to a stop, headlights emphasising the Beacon Hills Reserve sign. Stiles scoffs at the ‘no entry after dark’ warning. Putting a ‘no’ in front of anything only makes him exponentially more likely to do the thing. Killing the ignition, Stiles grabs his flashlight and all but throws himself from his Jeep with his enthusiasm. Definitely not slipping on the muddied ground. No one else is here to see it so it doesn’t happen.

Dispatch called his dad, the Beacon Hills sheriff, thirty minutes ago about a body found in the woods. No, not _a_ body, _half_ a body. Which opens up a whole mystery of why the body is in half and where the other half is. Mystery for which Stiles is far too inquisitive a person to ignore.

Following the glow of his flashlight, Stiles makes his way into the reserve. The ground is heavily carpeted with dead leaves that crunch resoundingly in the dark silence. It makes him nervous, makes him feel totally not stealth.

“‘No, Stiles, I will not go into the woods with you searching for a dead body in the middle of the night,’” he mumbles to himself for comfort, imitating Isaac’s drawl. “‘Thank you for the thoughtful invite, Stiles.’ Best friend, my ass.”

Stiles shivers deeper into his jacket, the material heavy with the steady drizzle soaking through. The rain settles on his skin like a sheen of sweat, icy droplets rolling down his face and neck. But he refuses to complain because he must be close and this cold, damp excursion will totally be worth it. Probably.

A shuffle of leaves incongruent with his own footfalls catches his attention and draws him to a halt. Clamping his jaw closed, Stiles realises for the first time that the killer might still be out here. He also realises, with terror inducing clarity, that he’s unwittingly catapulted himself right into the middle of a horror movie and curses his innate curiosity which seems to overwhelm any intelligence he claims to possess.

He stills and listens carefully, shining his flashlight around fretfully. Nothing. Except the pounding of his own heart. It’s probably just an animal. A small one. An adorable little bunny with all its adorable bunny babies. _Oh God, I hope I didn’t step on any bunny babies_ , he thinks, grimacing as he searches the ground for dead bunnies.

_Crack._

Stiles’ head snaps up and he shoves the flashlight against his stomach to smother the light because that _definitely_ wasn’t a bunny. He can hear the shuffling, approaching, growing louder. Internally freaking the fuck out, Stiles backs away slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible and—

Something collides into Stiles’ back and sends him tumbling to the – thankfully leaf padded, unfortunately muddy – ground. It would probably hurt if not for the surge of panic and adrenaline. He flails and scurries and whirls, reaching for his flashlight and shining it hurriedly at the other flailing… girl. It’s a girl. _She’s_ a girl. And he will deny, to the grave, that the shrill scream at their collision was his.

“What the hell?” Stiles gasps, wincing as a flashlight is similarly aimed at him. “Who the heck are you? Are you a murderer?”

“What? No! Why would I be a murderer?” she questions, brown eyes darting over him suspiciously. “Are _you_ a murderer?”

Stiles frowns. “No.”

Silence falls between them as they scrutinise each other, testing each other. Stiles doesn’t sense anything insincere or sinister about her, in fact she seems the complete opposite. Although she looks fairly mature he estimates she’s about his age and, even though she’s frowning, her expression is open and honest.

Stiles sighs and pushes himself off the damp ground.

“Okay, so, neither of us are murderers,” he says, wiping his hands off on his jeans and offering her a hand. “I’m Stiles.”

An amused grin slowly spreads across her face and dimples her cheeks as she accepts his offer to help her stand up.

“That’s not a name.”

Stiles squints at her. “‘Pleasure to meet you, Stiles. I’m—’ insert name here.”

She huffs a laugh. “Pleasure to meet you, Stiles. I’m Allison,” she repeats with a friendly smile, adjusting the hood of her coat so it protects her face from the rain. “Still not a name.”

“You’re right, it’s a nickname and ten times better than my real name. Easier to pronounce too, so be grateful,” he explains, continuing on his path at a more casual pace as she follows along. “So, you out in the woods in the middle of the night searching for a dead body too?”

“Dead body?” she asks, eyes darting worriedly. “There’s a dead body out here?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Two joggers found a body—Or, well, _half_ a body. The Sheriff’s Department and even State Police are out here searching for the other half.”

“Which half?”

Stiles frowns and tilts his head. “Huh… don’t know, didn’t even think about that. Wait, so, why _are_ you out here?”

Allison sighs heavily and when he glances back she averts her gaze, shoulders tense with uncertainty.

“Whoop, now you’re making me reconsider the whole you-not-being-a-murderer thing.”

“I, um…” she says, smiling reassuringly as she fiddles with her sleeve where it’s pulled over her hands to keep them warm. “My dad. I saw him sneaking out of the house. _Again_. So I decided to follow him and this is kinda where he led me. Though I clearly lost him. I’m just—I don’t know. He’s so secretive sometimes.”

Stiles nods along. “No, I get it. I worry about my dad too. He’s the sheriff.”

“Is that… why you’re out here? Worrying about your dad?”

“Yeah. I mean, probably.”

The truth of his words lull Stiles into an uncharacteristic silence. Not that he’s ever questioned or doubted his protective instincts for his father, simply that he’s never really spoken about it with anyone. No one’s asked or noticed. Except his dad, obviously, but that’s mostly in the form of complaints about being coddled.

“Do you have any theories about why exactly your dad is out here?”

Allison shakes her head. “No clue.”

“Could he be… hiding the rest of the body?”

“Are you accusing my dad of being a murderer?”

“Not accusing. Just questioning,” Stiles says innocently, holding his hands out in supplication. “I mean, you said he was being secretive and that he’s been coming—”

Allison seizes Stiles’ wrist, pulling him to an abrupt stop beside her. “Did you hear that?”

After a moment of squinting into the darkness, Stiles says, “No. There’s nothing.”

“Right. No birds, no insects…”

Leaves rustle and twigs snap ominously as something moves around them, out of range of their flashlights. There’s a rumble and it sounds too close to be the distant thunder of the passing storm. Stiles catches Allison’s arm and he starts backing away carefully.

“We should probably…”

She nods hastily. “Yeah.”

But the rumble closes in on them too quickly and a freaking herd of deer burst from between trees in the darkness, running straight towards them. Yelping, Stiles lets go of Allison’s arm to dive bodily behind the nearest tree and hopes to God she’s doing the same. He scrambles to his knees and breathes a sigh of relief when he glimpses Allison hiding behind a tree.

When seemingly all the deer in Beacon Hills have crashed through the woods around them, Stiles carefully peeks around the tree. In avoiding being trampled he lost his flashlight, but as far as he can see and hear the coast is clear.

In the eerie silence, Stiles rises and makes his way over to Allison.

“Talk about a close call, what the hell was—?”

“S-Stiles, Stiles,” she mumbles, leaning heavily against the tree as she rises and points to something in the darkness. “Do you—Do you see that?”

Following the line of her trembling arm, Stiles glimpses the unnatural glow amongst the trees, two red eyes and the faint outline of a figure. The longer he stares he dismisses the paranoid part of his brain as shadows playing tricks in the darkness. But the figure moves, dropping onto its haunches, nefarious red eyes never looking away.

Stiles jerks backwards, fear shocking through him like an electrical current and fight or flight response screaming him into action. _Run_. He clutches at air because apparently Allison’s survival instincts work faster and she’s tugging desperately at his jacket.

“Stiles, run!” she hisses, the panic in her voice punctuated by the creature’s threatening growl, it reverberates through Stiles’ ribcage and sets every nerve on edge.

Whirling, Stiles sprints after Allison through the consuming darkness of the woods, the slippery ground lit by the luminous silver moon. He hears the snarling and grating panting of whatever is chasing them, but he focuses on his running, on his footfalls, on not falling. God knows he’s a master at falling. _Not now, please not now,_ he begs his clumsy legs.

Something catches his foot and Stiles falls, heavily and loudly, winding him. Stiles rolls onto his side, curling up defensively and attempting to heave air back into his lungs but he’s met with the lifeless blue eyes and ashen skin of a dead woman and flails backwards, yelping soundlessly.

He hears Allison yell his name, footsteps storming towards him and flinches bodily as something touches his shoulder. Hands, Allison’s hands, so cold they chill through his clothes. A moment of relief, of reprieve, heart issuing that singular steady beat because at least she’s there.

And then she isn’t.

The snarl rips through the air; loud, close, overwhelming. Stiles feels every single muscle tense throughout his body, preparing for pain, preparing to die. But the heavy, heated darkness passes over him and takes Allison with it. She screams and it’s thick with terror so chillingly vivid that no amount of horror films could’ve prepared him for it.

Stiles head whips up, still barely breathing properly but not even caring because Allison’s thrashing and screaming underneath the impossibly massive form of a black beast. Self-preservation flying out the window, Stiles scurries to his feet, slipping on waxy leaves, and recklessly rushes towards her. Not knowing what he’s doing beyond ‘ _must protect her_ ,’ he’s unspeakably relieved when the monster suddenly leaps away and disappears into the darkness, howling.

“Allison!” Stiles yells, skidding to his knees beside her. “Allison, Allison, are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question, such a stupid question, but it’s reactive and important. Heedless of the fact that she’s a girl, his hands slide up her arms and eyes examine her for injury. When his fingers reach her shoulder she winces and pulls away from him, standing suddenly.

“We should go, we need to go,” she says hysterically, voice inescapably shaky, her eyes huge and imploring. “Please, can we leave?”

“Are you injured? Let me—”

“Stiles, _please_.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, noticing her twitch of discomfort with her own plea. A strong girl hating her own weakness. But Stiles thinks it appropriate, hell he’s not afraid to admit he’s scared as shit, but leaving does sound like a fucking good idea. “Yeah, okay.”

They walk hurriedly, carefully, eyes darting all around them. But all is calm once more, even the dull chirp of insects has returned. It doesn’t help, his nerves are frayed, torn and shredded, irreparable. Allison walks close to his side, arms curled around herself protectively.

Stiles is quiet but his mind is a chaotic maelstrom of questions. Even more so than usual. Which is strange because he’d usually just blurt them all out in an endless ramble, but his mouth is latched shut. He feels numb and worried. Everything’s happening so fast, too fast, they’re still in danger and even _his_ brain doesn’t have the time to process.

“If it scratched you or bit you or something…” Stiles mutters, glancing at the tattered shoulder of her red hoodie, impossible to tell if she’s bleeding.

“Uh, no, it’s just, uh—from a tree branch, when I was running. I’m—I’m fine.”

Wow. So not believable. But as he opens his mouth to state as much a flashlight shines at them and a dog barks. Stiles jolts and ends up on his ass again – God, he’s going to be so bruised tomorrow – but the sound of a familiar voice quells his fear, instantly relieving tension from his muscles.

“Hang on, hang on!” the commanding voice yells. “This little delinquent belongs to me.”

“Dad,” Stiles says casually, holding his hand up against the blinding light and rising to his feet, “how are you doing?”

“What are you two doing out here?” his dad questions, expression caught somewhere between being surprised, impressed and annoyed as he glances between Stiles and Allison in askance.

“Looking for the body,” Allison answers smoothly. A lie on her behalf and Stiles has to physically stop himself from frowning at her in confusion.

If possible, his dad’s eyebrows raise higher as he stares at her for a silent moment before glancing back at Stiles with a frown and a sigh. “Do you listen in to all of my calls?”

“No,” Stiles denies too quickly. His dad squints, incredulous. “Not the boring ones,” he amends.

“Of course not.” He looks inquiringly at Allison. “And who might you be?”

“Allison,” she introduces, friendly smile surprisingly convincing considering everything they’ve just been through. “Allison Argent.”

“Argent? As in Chris Argent? The man who sells weapons to the Sheriff’s Department?”

She nods slowly. “That would be my father.”

His dad glances between them again and Stiles can see the hundreds of questions passing over his weary face. Stiles knows the feeling all too well. He can practically hear his dad’s ‘ _I’m too old for this shit’_ in his heavy sigh.

“Alright. I’m going to walk you two back to your cars,” he decides, draping an arm over Stiles’ shoulders and directing him through the woods. Allison following along silently. “And you and I are going to have a conversation about something called invasion of privacy, son.”

Stiles groans, as a proper teenager about to be reprimanded by their parent should, but mostly he’s relieved and grateful for the safety of his dad’s presence. Maybe even revels in it a bit. Because he just went through something harrowing he’s allowed to need his dad. Stiles keeps an eye on Allison, but she’s quiet, guarded and masking her emotions with a smile. He can see through it though, brown eyes a little too wide and smile a little too tight.

Allison gives Stiles a small sincere smile as she climbs into her car and leaves.

Stiles wants to pace, wants to scream, his mind nearing implosion with the tidal wave of questions flooding his thoughts. The most prominent of which: What the actual fuck just happened?

 

* * *

 

“You look like shit,” Isaac announces as he approaches Stiles.

“Wow, thank you. Just what my self-esteem needed. I’m seriously considering reclaiming your best friend bracelet and requesting a new friend,” Stiles says flippantly.

This sunny fall morning is the first day of school, tired and bored teenagers swarming all around them and into the halls of Beacon Hills High School for a new year of hormonal angst and homework. The air is clean, crisp and full of possibilities – also suddenly heavy with pot as the stoner geeks walk past – as the breeze swirls brown leaves around their ankles. Mostly though, Stiles is glad to be alive, because after last night he feels like he shouldn’t be.

He still has no freaking idea what happened. No matter how little sleep he got due to contemplating the events surrounding The Woods Scene. His eyes search the crowd for Allison despite not actually knowing whether she’s going to school. It’s his deduction that she will though and he’s usually on point with those.

“I’m supposed to have a bracelet?” Isaac asks, tilting his head so that his soft blond curls flop across his forehead. Dude needs a haircut.

Stiles’ mouth falls open in mock offense. “You lost your friendship bracelet? That’s it, friendship over!”

Isaac smirks, shaking his head with amusement. “Seriously though, did you find the body? Is that why you look like shit? Traumatised for life and all that?”

“I… did,” Stiles says, recalling the glazed over blue eyes staring into nothingness. “But that’s not the traumatic part. I mean, it is. But there was this giant black monster thing which totally eclipses the seeing a dead girl thing. You know, on account of one being alive and trying to eat us and the other being stationary and dead and mostly harmless.”

Isaac narrows his icy blue eyes and purses his lips, attempting to decipher whether Stiles’ lying or, more likely, being dramatic. Something Isaac generally excels at, given how long they’ve known each other and how much time they spend together.

“A giant black monster thing,” Isaac repeats slowly, apparently unable to decide.

“Yeah, it attacked us. And by us I mean me and this girl I met in the woods. She was out there to find her dad or something because he was being weird, which sounded super sus to me because of the murder—or, well, I suppose they don’t know if it was a murder per se, haven’t done an autopsy yet. But the body is _in half_. Not sure how that would ever constitute as suicide. Though I suppose that could have happened post-mortem, which still begs the question: Who chopped up the dead chick? Anyway, this girl, Allison, and I were chased and attacked and—”

“Holy angel descended from heaven…” Isaac says dreamily, eyes focused over Stiles’ shoulder. “Who is that? Why is she coming over here? Oh God, act cool.”

Stiles scoffs. “Dude, I _am_ cool—ow, ow, ow, ow!”

He doesn’t even turn to see this ‘holy angel descended from heaven’ before someone grabs him by the ear and drags him over to the nearest tree and away from the stream of students. The hand is warm and strong, so when he looks up to meet the rich brown eyes and bouncy dark curls of Allison Argent he’s more than a little surprised.

“Ouch, geez! What was that for?” Stiles complains, rubbing his abused ear when she lets go. “And how are you _so strong_?”

“Why were you telling him about last night?” Allison snaps in a hushed voice.

Stiles glances back at Isaac who is approaching slowly, cautiously, like they’re wild animals who will spook at any sudden movement. Probably not far from the truth considering how tense Allison appears. Which, fair.

“He’s my best friend, I tell him everything, even when he’s an ass about it,” Stiles says, unsure why he’s being yelled at. “Also, I needed someone to talk to about it since you left and it’s been driving me crazy all night and I have dirty big circles under my eyes because I couldn’t sleep. I have so many questions, don’t you have questions?”

Allison’s annoyance fades at his words and under the naturally open and friendly set of her features Stiles can see how tired she really is. He can see how uncertain and fearful she is, rigid with the effort of holding herself together.

“Uh, hey, hi. I’m Isaac,” he introduces himself, smiling nervously and waving awkwardly.

She glances up at him and all the pain creasing her features melts away with the innate need to be friendly, smiling easily at Isaac, cheeks dimpling. Because Allison seems like one of those people who will absolutely go out of her way to be kind.

“Allison.”

“Okay, wow,” Isaac breathes, staring at her a little too intensely. Stiles rolls his eyes but Isaac seems to shake himself before it gets too awkward. “Um, sorry. How exactly did you hear what Stiles was saying? Because I saw you, you were way over by the drop-off bays. Also you got over here like super-fast.”

Allison frowns then glances back and Stiles follows her line of sight to the drop-off bays that are at least 200 feet away. Stiles’ mouth drops open to speak when he notices Allison’s hand absent-mindedly raising to her shoulder and wincing as her fingers touch the denim of her jacket. Stiles narrows his eyes accusingly.

“Tree branch, my ass. The creature thing did get you.”

“It was a wolf,” Allison responds, turning back but avoiding his gaze.

“Uh, no, there are no wolves in California,” Isaac corrects sceptically. “Not in like 60 years.”

Stiles glances at Isaac, because he knows it to be true but, “There was definitely howling, though it didn’t look like any wolf I’ve ever seen. Did it bite you?” he asks Allison, whose grimace is as good as a ‘yes.’ “Show me.”

Allison huffs but pulls aside her jacket and shirt to reveal a large patch bandage. She lifts the taped corner and Stiles leans in to inspect the wound. From what he can see they certainly look like animal teeth marks bitten into her skin and Stiles recalls – with clarity he lacked in the moment – the horrifying snarling and screaming, sickening crunching and tearing of flesh.

“Does it hurt?” Stiles asks quietly, searching Allison’s face.

Pursing her lips Allison covers the bright scarlet wound back up and shakes her head. “Not too much.”

Stiles had hoped that in seeing Allison and talking to her they could collectively shed some light on the situation, agree on some logical explanations for what they saw and what happened. Instead, the conclusions being drawn, at least in Stiles’ mind, are becoming increasingly terrifying and completely illogical. Also marginally awesome, but he’s not going to leap to the supernatural until he has more evidence.

“Well, it definitely looks like an animal bite,” Isaac surmises after a pregnant pause, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps a rabid dog or something. Have you had shots?”

“Yeah,” Allison says, a grateful smile pulling at the corner of her lips at his concern. “My dad’s very insistent about it.”

“So, you could hear us from all the way over there?” Stiles questions and points towards the drop-off bays, barely listening to them as his mind whirs incessantly.

“I… Yeah,” she allows reluctantly, brown eyes dropping to her boots.

“Lycanthropy,” Stiles blurts. So much for the not leaping. They both stare at him with identical expressions, frowning, exasperated and a little concerned. Stiles groans. “No, I’m serious, guys. Think about it. Giant, scary wolf monster tore up the girl in the woods, we encroached and then it attacked us. It bit you and now you can hear things from far away, move really fast and… Probably other things.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Dude, you watch too many scary movies.”

“First of all, werewolves, not scary. At least not on television, where they’re not out in the middle of the woods at night chasing after you,” Stiles hisses quietly. “Second, Allison doesn’t look so disbelieving.”

Allison’s staring at him, stock still and wide eyed with revelation. Stiles can practically see the events replay in her mind, as they have constantly been replaying – fast-forwarding, rewinding, pausing – in his own. And it’s chilling, unnerving. If he’s right, if this long-bow he’s drawn hits its mark, everything changes. Especially for Allison.

Gripping the strap of her bag, Allison relaxes and sighs heavily, her gaze drifting to the prominent Beacon Hills High School building looming nearby, threatening with tedious learning experiences and vast corridors of gossiping teenagers.

“Look, Stiles,” Allison starts, and he knows for a fact that nothing good comes after those two words. “I appreciate that you’re worried and that you care, I do. But this is my first day of high school in a new town and I don’t want to already be dealing with… this. It’s just—it’s too much.”

Stiles nods, he understands, he really does, but, “We’re going back out there after school.”

A smile twitches at Allison’s mouth as she fights it back, finally giving up and huffing a laugh. “I’ll think about it,” she concedes and turns on her heel to leave as the bell rings. “I’m sure I’ll see you guys later.”

Waving half-heartedly at her receding form, Stiles turns to see Isaac staring after her with his big blue puppy dog eyes.

“I can’t believe you go out into the woods in the middle of the night to find a dead body—”

“Half a dead body,” Stiles corrects.

“—to find half a dead body, and end up meeting the most beautiful girl in the freaking universe.”

Stiles isn’t stupid, he knows Allison’s attractive, with the long lashes and the bright smile and the kind eyes and the dark silky hair, but he doesn’t _notice_ notice. It doesn’t affect him. Sweet but strong, she reminds him so much of his mother, coming back for him when he tripped instead of just running to save herself.

“I’ll allow _second_ most beautiful girl in the universe,” Stiles says, bumping shoulders with Isaac as they make their way into school.

“Dude, your crush on Lydia is absolutely ridiculous.”

“I think you mean absolutely ridiculously justified.”

Isaac snorts a laugh. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

“Why did I agree to this?” Allison asks.

“You’re terrified I’m right and are hoping that we’ll find something to prove I’m not,” Stiles guesses, shuffling through the leaves.

In the light of day the woods aren’t so scary… Okay, they’re fairly scary, but Isaac wasn’t wrong, Stiles has watched a lot of scary movies that are set in suspiciously similar looking areas. Point is, the woods are certainly _less_ scary in daylight, though just as quiet and still.

With a clearer, less pants-wettingly petrified mindset, Stiles figures he should actually inform his dad about the dead body he stumbled over. To do that though, he needs to actually find it because last night he’d been so turned around in the darkness there’s no way he could simply explain where it is. He’s also curious about the creature – werewolf? – and hoping to find some other evidence it possibly left behind.

“There have been other… things happen throughout the day,” Allison admits quietly into the contemplative silence.

“Things? What things?”

Stiles notices her watching him carefully, trying to work out whether she can trust him, so he waits patiently for her answer. Anyone who knows Stiles, his father especially, would say him being patient is a freaking miracle, but this is an unpredictable situation with a person he’s just getting to know and Stiles can be delicate when he needs to be. Sometimes.

“Um, well,” she starts, inhaling a steeling breath. “Hearing more, lots of stuff I just should _not_ be able to hear. My lab-partner dropped a beaker and I caught it so fast, too fast. I can smell things, like… the last thing you ate was an apple.”

“You probably saw me eat my apple at lunch.”

“I didn’t. You have some stuck in your teeth.”

Stiles scrunches his nose. “Gross.”

Allison laughs. “You’re telling me. And I have no control over any of it, it just kinda happens.”

“You know this is starting to sound more and more like—”

“I know,” she says, sighing. “It’s just a little hard to believe I’m cursed. Not until I know for sure. My family just moved here and my dad’s being distant and avoidant and even if I put a name to what’s happening to me, it’s still strange. It _feels_ strange. There’s just so much we don’t know.”

Stiles stops, meeting her gaze. “Okay, so we focus on what we do know and work our way from there. I’ll do some research and we’ll figure this out.”

Allison blinks in surprise, staring at him a silent moment.

“Why are you doing all this for me? Not that I’m not grateful, I am, but you don’t really know me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I was there too. It could’ve easily been me that was bitten, our roles could’ve easily been reversed, and I would hope that someone would help me, that you would. Besides, I freaking love research. And werewolf research? Are you kidding me? That’s _so_ much cooler than anything I’ve ever done for school.”

Allison smiles gratefully. “Thank you, Stiles.”

He bows grandly. “I am very gracious.”

“Clearly,” she says sarcastically as they continue through the woods. Her brow furrows in thought. “I don’t think you would have been bitten.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you fell over—”

“When I was tripped by half a dead body?”

Allison cringes. “Yeah, that. The creature thing—”

“Werewolf.”

“Would you stop doing that?” she huffs, though her grin ruins the exasperated affect. Stiles raises his hands in surrender. “When you tripped over the half dead body, the werewolf circled around you. Like it wasn’t interested in you. And then when I ran back to you it… it attacked me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes down at the dry dead leaves, considering her words. “You mean, you think it was targeting you? Or like, preferred you.” Allison hums an uncertain agreement. “Well, great. I’m even werewolves’ last choice.”

Allison laughs, a bubbly bright noise and the most unreserved and relaxed Stiles has seen her since he met her. Likely the real Allison, the Allison that isn’t scared for her life or worried about consequences and how her life might change.

Putting a lid on his questions, Stiles focuses on his surroundings because he thinks he recognises that tree. Kneeling, he brushes aside some leaves to reveal the trample of the deer hoof marks in the dirt, and turns in the direction he thinks they ran. The darkness and blinding panic hadn’t allowed much time for a sense of direction, but they do allow for a clear – terrifying – memory.

He stops and frowns, gaze scanning the area before falling to the ground at his feet with confusion.

“There’s nothing here. This is where we were, right?”

Allison’s frown matches his as she nods stiffly. “Yeah, this is where it happened,” she agrees, kneeling down to comb through the leaves. “Maybe… Maybe the killer moved the body?”

“Now there’s a creepy thought.”

Glancing around, Stiles jolts as he notices a dark figure in his periphery and whirls to see a man standing nearby. He wordlessly nudges Allison and she rises beside him to face their lurky onlooker.

With his dark clothes and hair, the man is a stark black contrast to the muted browns and greys and greens of the woods, making Stiles wonder how they hadn’t seen the guy before now. Even from the distance Stiles can feel his innate intimidation, shoulders broad and eyes piercing. He just glares at them for a few awkward moments before approaching with long, purposeful strides.

He slows uncertainly as he draws near, eyes widening on Allison for a split second in what seems to be recognition. He covers it quickly with a sullen expression, jaw tensing and glancing at Stiles as if he’s safer to look at.

“What are you doing here?” he questions, tone surprisingly smooth despite the scowl down-turning his mouth and furrowing his brow. There is no good answer for that question so they remain quiet. “This is private property.”

Stiles scratches the back of his head. “Uh, sorry, man. We didn’t know.”

“We were just looking for… something…” Allison says slowly, uncomfortable and tense, lacking her usual friendly smile that could probably get her out of all kinds of trouble, like speeding fines and detentions. His eyebrows raise in acrimonious query. “Uh, nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“You shouldn’t be out here, it’s dangerous,” the man says gruffly.

“Is that a threat?” Stiles asks indignantly. Something about this dude rubs him the wrong way and it’s more than just the fact that he’s super suspicious lurking out here where there was a dead body less than 24 hours ago.

“Trust me, if I was threatening you you’d know.”

“Okay, now that definitely sounded like—”

“Stiles,” Allison warns, trepidation in her voice and her hand at his elbow. “Don’t.”

“You should listen to your friend, Stiles,” the dude snarls his name before turning on his heel and stalking away.

Stiles stares after him, mouth still open with astonishment and annoyance. Something flickers at the edge of his mind, a memory teasingly out of reach as he follows the thought. This _is_ private property but it belongs to a family who died years ago… No. Not all of them.

“Wait, that was Derek Hale,” Stiles says, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head. “The Hale family house is near here but they all burned to death in a fire like five years ago. The only Hale survivors left town after it happened. I wonder what he’s doing back…”

“He smelled good,” Allison remarks, staring where Derek disappeared between the trees and frowning like she doesn’t know why she’s even saying it.

Stiles snorts a laugh. “Well, yeah, dude’s got that whole confusing scary but hot thing going for him, but he’s creepy as fuck and number one on my murder suspect list.”

She turns, eyes narrowing on Stiles and lips curving with amusement. “That’s not what I… I mean he smells different somehow, _feels_ different. Different from other people but… familiar.”

“So, your wolfy senses are tingling?”

Allison huffs and shakes her head as she walks back the way they came. “I do _not_ have wolfy senses.”

“You know, we’d make an awesome crime fighting duo,” Stiles continues, stumbling over a branch as he follows after her. “I’ll be the brains, doing all the research and investigating, and you be the werewolf brawn, chasing down and pummelling the bad guys.”

“Excuse me? I’m smart,” she protests lightly, smiling back at him.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. Please don’t shoot down my hopes and dreams, Ally.”

 

* * *

 

“Dammit, Allison, answer your freaking phone!” Stiles growls, listening to the dial tone with mounting frustration, one hand holding the phone to his ear while the other steers his Jeep through the streets of Beacon Hills. “Shit,” he hisses when the call goes through to Allison’s voicemail once more.

Stiles chucks his phone onto the passenger seat and focuses his efforts on driving as he’s nearing Lydia’s house where the party is being held.

The week has been a slow crawl of classes and homework and research. No dead bodies or strange incidents. Allison has been carefully attempting to maintain some sense of normality but she’s still experiencing things no human has the capabilities to experience and reporting them back to Stiles when she’s not hanging out with her new best friend Lydia Martin. Which is the most amazingly awesome opportunity for Stiles to get closer to his eternal crush, if not for the fact that he has way too much to deal with already. Potential werewolves and a dead body in the woods and a dark lurky Hale.

Ever since they met Derek Hale in the woods with his ominous words and perpetual scowl, Stiles has been seeing him lurking around town. Whether Stiles is simply imagining things or he’s actually on the town’s newest serial killer’s hit list, he doesn’t know. He really hopes it’s the former because Derek is likely a giant, terrifying werewolf and Stiles would prefer not to be his chew toy.

“‘Lydia invited me to a party and didn’t really offer much room to refuse. I’m not a werewolf, this isn’t some fairy-tale, Stiles. This is my _life_ and I just want to be normal’,” Stiles mimics Allison’s voice dramatically. “Great, wonderful, Allison. Too bad it’s a full freaking moon and you’re probably going to wolf-out and tear everyone to shreds. The graduating class of 2012, everyone!”

He’s breaking numerous speed limits but figures this is an emergency and with his dad as the sheriff the most he’ll get is a stern talking to. Though sometimes he’d prefer to pay the fine.

There are cars lining the street the party is on so Stiles pulls up to a lurching halt in the driveway, causing a few loitering teens to startle. He catches a glimpse of a tall dark figure across the street in his side mirror but when he jumps out of his Jeep there’s no one there, just another Derek Hale ghost playing tricks with his imagination. Hopefully.

Stiles races inside, ignoring all the people staring at him and murmuring about him. His eyes dart about the room but there are just so many people. The music’s loud, pounding through his body like a second heartbeat and it’s hot, packed tight with so many dancing bodies. He searches and searches but he can’t see Allison.

Maybe outside.

Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles skids to a halt when he sees Derek across the yard and freezes. This Derek is real, substantial, standing there staring at Stiles with his trademark scowl. There’s a dog barking behind him, Derek turns to glare at it and it stops barking. It’s all very Hitchcock.

“Stiles?” Allison’s voice draws his attention, her hand at his shoulder.

The music’s building in perfect synchronisation with how utterly panicked he’s feeling as he glances at Allison and when he turns back Derek is gone. But he has no time to worry about the possible serial killer stalking him because Allison groans, gripping her head and doubling over.

“Stiles, something’s wrong,” she whimpers, long dark hair falling over her face. “S-Something’s happening.”

Cursing under his breath, he looks up at the bright silver moon, shining down at him tauntingly from the velvety darkness of the night sky. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Stiles leads her inside and is taking her towards the front door and his Jeep when she shudders, body contorting inward.

“We need to get you out of here,” Stiles grunts under the sudden weight of her body.

“No—No time. It hurts. It— _aaa_ —it hurts.”

Mind racing, thinking, searching for an answer, for something he can do. Christ sakes, if only she’d listened to him they could’ve had time to consider this, to lock her up so she couldn’t hurt anyone or herself. Thinking only to get her away from the people around them, staring at them, Stiles half carries Allison upstairs and shoves them into the first room he sees.

Allison collapses by the door, straining to reach up and lock it. She’s covered in a sheen of sweat, hair sticking to her forehead, and she looks almost crippled the way her body curls in on itself, whimpering in pain. An image of his mother, pallid and sick, curled up in agony on the hospital bed enters his mind and makes him feel nauseated.

“You-You need to—to leave,” Allison murmurs, voice wavering.

“No,” he says adamantly, glancing around the room. “We need to find something to tie you up with. You’re just going to break that door down and… I just have to find something.”

Stiles listens to Allison’s panting and whimpering as he searches through drawers and in the wardrobe for something, _anything_ , to restrain her with. Vaguely he’s aware that this is Lydia’s room and it’s certainly not how he wanted his first visit in here to go, but he’ll have to bemoan that later.

“Aha!” Stiles cheers in triumph, holding up a fluffy pair of handcuffs.

A guttural snarl makes his smile drop. Allison’s crouched low on the ground, long claws cutting into the carpet, jaw falling open with sharp, elongating fangs and glowing amber eyes narrowing on Stiles. His breath catches in his throat as he realises he just locked himself in a room with a werewolf who is standing in front of the only exit.

Stiles drops the handcuffs and holds his hands up in supplication. “Allison…”

Her head tilts as she rises and stalks towards him, a rumbling growl building in her chest. ‘The full moon induces an insatiable bloodlust for werewolves who lack control, who lack an anchor’ Stiles had discovered in his research. ‘The moon is a powerful, controlling force of nature.’ That seems like a vast freaking understatement when he’s face to face with the sweetest person in the world and she looks like she wants to eviscerate him.

“A-Allison, its Stiles, I’m your friend remember,” he mumbles, voice faltering and hitching as icy fear freezes through his veins. He backs away warily until his back hits the wall. “Come on, Ally, you don’t want to hurt me.”

He barely recognises her under the wolf-like contortion of her features, eyes gleaming in the dim light and clawed hands flexing in preparation to rend his flesh. Stiles tenses, trapped against the wall with no escape, as she closes in on him, snarling dangerously.

“Ally, please don’t—”

Suddenly someone’s standing before Stiles, broad leather-clad shoulders blocking his view of Allison. Stiles hears her whine uncertainly and when he leans around his protector he sees Allison backing away from them. He glances up at the strong, dark-stubble covered line of Derek’s jaw as it drops open, fangs elongating in his mouth and a commanding roar resonates from deep in his chest. Allison seems to understand the warning, scurrying away and leaping out the open window Derek must have entered through.

“What the hell—?”

Stiles stops talking as Derek whirls to face him, standing too close, fangs still bared threateningly. He’s large, like ridiculously large, and it makes Stiles cower back against the wall instinctively.

“This isn’t your problem, you’re going to get yourself killed,” Derek growls abrasively around his fangs. “I’ll deal with this.”

“Deal with it? With Allison?” Stiles questions, apprehensive of the finality of Derek’s words as he strides to the window after Allison. “What do you mean? Deal with her how?”

“Go home, Stiles.”

“Derek!”

He chases him to the window but Derek’s already gone, a blur of supernaturally fast movement disappearing into the darkness of night. Stiles breathes heavily into the buzz of silence, exasperated and worried, the music of the party a distant thrum.

Confirmed: freaking werewolves are very alarmingly real. Allison was bitten by a werewolf, possibly Derek, and is now a werewolf herself. Derek is certainly a werewolf and probably stalking him, but also protected him? Either way, Stiles’ worried about Allison because Derek dealing with it evokes nothing but bad and murdery images.

 

* * *

 

The Jeep skids to a halt on the dirt road and Stiles leaps from it once more. It’s becoming his move. He approaches the burnt skeleton of the Hale house, fear for Allison overwhelming the foreboding sense of trepidation at the sight of the building looming in the darkness. He calls out for Allison, for Derek, and stands in silence waiting for any response.

All this panicking _cannot_ be good for his heart.

Swallowing back his fear, Stiles climbs the porch steps and nudges the unlocked door open. It swings, creaking eerily, to reveal pretty much what he expected. The devastated inside of a burned out house. Everything is charred in greys and blacks, it smells earthy and rotting and the ceiling is partially missing.

“Derek? Allison?”

All is still, all is silent.

Heaving a sigh, Stiles swears and turns on his heel, exiting the creepy house as quickly as possible. He’s halfway to his Jeep, contemplating where else to look as he’s already checked at Allison’s house and around town, when he notices the mound of dirt around the side of the house. He approaches slowly, mind racing with possibilities all leading to the same conclusion: The body has been buried here.

Stiles rushes over to his Jeep and dials Isaac’s number immediately.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Isaac answers and Stiles can hear the low whirring of the excavator in the background.

“I need you to bring two shovels to the Hale house,” Stiles says promptly, he doesn’t have time to mess around, Derek could return at any moment.

“I’m working, Stiles.”

“I think I’ve found the body.”

“Then call your dad.”

“You know I can’t do that, not unless I know for sure it’s here. I’m messaging you the address, you need to get here quickly because I really don’t want to become Derek Hale’s next victim.”

“You think Derek did it?” Isaac asks, the machine noise cutting off, which is promising.

Stiles scoffs. “Of course he did it, he’s a giant, scary werewolf. Now get your skinny ass here!”

“Okay, okay, I’m on my way.”

The time he spends waiting for Isaac, biting his nails and jittering his leg, are the longest and most tense ten minutes of Stiles’ life. He waits by his Jeep, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. And when Isaac rides up the dirt road Stiles is in his Jeep, engine on and in gear when he realises it’s just Isaac, two shovels across his handlebars.

“Oh my God, you are the best friend ever,” Stiles breathes out a deep sigh of relief and hugs Isaac as his heart steadies somewhat.

Isaac snorts a laugh, patting him on the back before prying him off so he can climb off his bike. “Does this mean I get my friendship bracelet back?”

“Oh, dude, I will buy you a brand new sparkly one. Let’s just do this, or they’ll have to bury us with our sparkly friendship bracelets.”

Isaac grimaces and Stiles leads him towards the mound of dirt. They start digging, breathing out puffy white clouds into the cold night and grunting with the effort. Who knew digging was such hard work? Well, Isaac probably, considering he works as a grave digger. Though he has a nifty machine for that. Hot and sweaty and dirty, Stiles could really use that excavator right about now.

“So, werewolves confirmed, huh?” Isaac asks, panting and shovelling through the dirt expertly.

“Yeah, and not nearly as awesome when they’re trying to murder you. Allison changed at the party, which I only _just_ got there for and then almost attacked me when Derek stepped in and like growled at her and sent her running. Then he said he’d ‘deal with it’, whatever the hell that means, so I went searching for Ally but couldn’t find her anywhere,” Stiles explains between laboured breaths.

“Do you think she’s okay?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. I mean, Allison can handle herself and she’s also a werewolf so I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Wait,” Isaac says, straightening to catch his breath. “Derek protected you from Allison but you think he’s the murderer?”

“At this point he’s the most likely suspect. And if he didn’t do it then he’ll have an alibi and he’ll be fine. But the cops needs this other half of the body otherwise they can’t do their jobs,” Stiles huffs, wiping his back of his hand over his sweaty brow, which merely smears more dirt. “Come on, we need to keep digging.”

It only takes a few more shovels full of dirt – and stinging pain of blisters on his hands – before Stiles’ shovel scrapes against something. Kneeling over they brush the last of the dirt off the large bundle of thick cloth and untie the knots hurriedly. They both jerk back and out of the hole, screaming and flailing. Okay, the screaming and flailing is mostly Stiles.

“What the hell is that?” Stiles questions, mostly rhetorical and for the sake of talking, because he knows exactly what it is.

“A dead wolf,” Isaac answers, staring down at the lifeless black wolf head with wide-eyes.

“Yeah, I can see that. Why the hell would he bury this here?”

Isaac shakes his head slowly, straightening. “I don’t… I don’t know. We have to get out of here.”

Stiles doesn’t hear him, cogs turning noisily in his mind. He inspects the wolf carefully. Half a wolf, it’s only the front half of the wolf. An image of muddied, pallid skin and glazed over blue eyes enters his mind. His gaze moves over the mound of excavated dirt, noticing that it extends beyond the necessary burial site and then he sees it. Stark against the brown dirt is a vivid purple flower.

“Wolfsbane…” he mumbles aloud.

He digs his already dirtied fingers underneath the flower and lifts it easily from the ground, as it’s been placed there purposely. Attached to the wolfsbane is a rope and Stiles pulls it from being shallowly buried around the burial site.

Around and around the rope goes until the ground glows a dull red swirl where the rope was. Despite the creepy possibility of mystic magic, Stiles keeps going, the rope tingling and warm against his skin.

“Stiles…” he hears Isaac whisper.

His name draws him from his focused haze and Stiles blinks, dizzy and confused, before going to stand beside Isaac. He follows Isaac’s gaze to see dead blue eyes staring up at him. Stiles fumbles for his pocket, retrieving his phone.

“Stiles,” his dad answers tiredly. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been—”

“Dad, I found the other half of the body.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles leans against his Jeep, watching a deputy walk Derek out of his house, hands cuffed behind his back, piercing hazel eyes finding and narrowing on Stiles. There is an amused glint in his expression, even as he glares. But Stiles can’t work out whether it’s an ‘it’s cute you think I’m not going to murder you’ glint, or a ‘you’re way out of your depth’ glint. Possibly both.

Isaac went home hours ago, not wanting to get in trouble with his father, and Stiles’ dad arrived promptly, zoning off the burial site and sending his law enforcement to work on forensics. When Derek arrived in his sleek black Camaro, Stiles could tell he was furious but he contained it and cooperated. He didn’t run or resist, he followed the sheriff into the house to answer some questions. His compliance is surprising, to say the least, but also earns him innocence points, Stiles begrudgingly permits.

Derek’s pushed into the backseat of the cruiser. Stiles carefully watches the deputy and his dad walk around the side of the house to the crime scene before surreptitiously scurrying to the cruiser and climbing into the front seat. Glancing around, Stiles turns to face the backseat.

“Okay, just so you know, I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles says with false confidence that’s only further demoralised by the menacing scowl Derek focuses on him. And he realises he’s locked himself in a small space with the giant angry werewolf and only a metal cage between them that he can probably shred like tissue paper. Stiles really needs to think these things through. “Okay, maybe I am. A little. Doesn’t matter. I just want to know what you did to Allison.”

“She’s at home. You need to go check on her,” Derek answers in that too smooth voice given his steely death-ray gaze.

Stiles frowns, this is not the way he thought this conversation would go. “What?”

Derek glances about cagily and leans forward. So close, too close. Wow. Eyes. How the ever living frick are they a million different shades of sharp vibrant colour?

“Her father’s Argent, a hunter, and we ran into him last night. He didn’t see her and we got away but if he finds out…”

“Wait, a hunter? As in Sam and Dean Winchester hunter? As in a werewolf killing hunter?”

Derek’s eyebrows descend even lower in an ‘are you stupid?’ frown and Stiles ignores it, releasing a slow, tense breath. This is bad. This is so very bad. Like, worse than _all_ of the bad they’ve already experienced put together. And here he didn’t think he’d have to deal with a situation more terrifying and difficult than Derek freaking Hale.

“Your father’s coming.”

“What?” Stiles asks when the cruiser door opens. “How do you know he’s—? Hey! Ow, ow, ow.”

Stiles is dragged from the cruiser by his jacket, stumbling and flailing as he’s pulled out at a strange angle. When he’s out, his dad hauls him away from the cruiser and settles his disappointed expression on Stiles.

“There, stand.”

Sighing heavily, Stiles does just that, standing on his own two feet without any support. Like a real life capable person.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” his dad questions, voice hitting that ‘what the fuck, Stiles?’ pitch. “Are you friends with Derek Hale?”

Stiles snorts because _that_ , that is hilarious. Actually priceless. Him and Derek. Friends. He’s fairly certain that if Derek didn’t want to kill him before he certainly does now. Besides, the guy’s all eyebrows of ominousness and intimidating brevity, not much to be friends with. Also, possible murderer.

“Yeah, dad. This is what all good friends do, get each other arrested.”

It’s his dad’s turn to sigh. “I do not have time for your sarcasm, son. Tell me exactly how it is you came across this.”

“I dropped my flashlight the other night and I came out to find it. Got lost, found my way here, found the mound of dirt, thought it suspicious considering the missing body and called you,” Stiles explains, hoping to hell he’s weaving around the truth enough that his dad believes him.

“Uh huh… You came out to find your flashlight in the middle of the night? When I specifically told you it’s too dangerous to be out here because there is an ongoing homicide investigation.”

“Yes…”

His dad looks towards the heavens, as if begging some deity to explain why he has such a troublesome son. Stiles hates anything even in the vicinity of lying to his dad, but it’s necessary. To protect him. And there is literally nothing Stiles wouldn’t do to protect him.

“Stiles, just go,” he says with finality.

“Yep. Gone.”

And he is. He can feel Derek’s gaze boring into him as he hurries to his Jeep, it sears at his skin and sparks down his spine. A not so gentle reminder of how utterly fucked he is now that he’s made an enemy of the Big Bad Werewolf.

He’ll worry about that later. For now said Big Bad Werewolf is locked up – in a cage he can probably escape whenever he wants, but a cage nonetheless – and Stiles has bigger problems. Like hunters. Whatever the hell they do. Hunt things, probably. Derek spoke about them like they’re something to fear and if Derek the Terrifying Werewolf Hale is scared of them there is little hope for the rest of them. Especially sweet innocent little lamb – turned werewolf – Allison.

It doesn’t take him long to arrive at the Argent house in all its typical Beacon Hills suburban glory. It’s only after Stiles rings the doorbell that he checks his phone to see that it’s 7am. He winces and runs his hand over his buzzcut, hoping the Argents are morning people. His worry is promptly quelled as Mrs. Argent opens the door, bright eyed and donned in sophisticated severity.

“Uh, hi, Mrs. Argent,” he greets, smiling his most innocent, friendly smile. “Um, you don’t know me but I’m a friend of Allison’s. Stiles, Stiles Stilinski.”

Her annoyed, judgemental expression softens marginally at the trustworthy name of the town’s sheriff, the way Stiles intended. “Stiles, the sheriff’s son,” Mrs. Argent says. “Allison’s told me about you, that you’ve been very welcoming and a good friend at school.”

“Yep, that’s me. Friendly. Welcoming.”

“Sorry, Stiles. I think Allison is still asleep, maybe you should call later or—”

“Mom?” Allison’s voice calls out and she appears on the landing above the entryway. “Who’s at the—? Stiles?”

“Er, hey,” he says, waving up at her with a single erratic hand movement.

“It’s okay, mom, he can come up.”

Mrs. Argent hesitates, glancing back at her daughter for a moment before stepping aside and allowing Stiles entrance with a tight smile. With a grateful – forced – smile, Stiles steps around her and climbs the stairs quickly. Allison leads Stiles to her room, shuts the door behind them and slumps into the nest of blankets she’s created for herself. He really wants to make a dog joke, but the timing is way too inappropriate, even for his standards.

The last time he’d seen Allison she’d been preparing to claw his face off and tear out his innards. But now she simply looks exhausted, like she’s run a marathon and hasn’t slept. Probably not far from the truth. She’s wearing sweats and her hair is tied back in a messy bun, dark tendrils falling loosely around her face. She’s on edge, tense, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

She’s scared.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, casually sitting on her bed. “Derek said you had a run in with… hunters and your dad.”

“You spoke to Derek?”

“Spoke to him. Got him arrested. It’s been a busy morning.”

Allison’s eyes widen. “You did _what_? Why?”

“Why? Let me see, because he had the body buried on his property, right near his house. If you even can call that burned out _thing_ a house,” Stiles explains, gesticulating in his defensiveness. Wait, why does he feel the need to be defensive? “Why are you surprised? I thought you were on board with my ‘Derek Hale: number one suspect’ theory.”

“I was,” she concedes, drawing the blanket tighter around her waist and pulling at a loose thread distractedly. “But last night he—he saved me. All I remember was the party, you taking me upstairs, the pain… and then suddenly I was in the woods, shot with an arrow and being hunted by my own…” Allison trails off, brown eyes filled with sadness. “Derek helped me escape.”

Stiles sighs heavily and rubs at his face. “Look, if Derek’s innocent my dad will figure it out and he’ll be released. If Derek’s innocent… that means that there is some other werewolf out there that bit you and killed the girl.”

“Derek didn’t bite me,” Allison says confidently. “I could—I can feel it.”

“Well, crap,” he concludes.

This is getting more complicated and confusing and mysterious by the day. He’s not going to lie, it’s pretty freaking awesome and exciting. Not that he’ll say that out loud. On account of everyone involved so far being in terrible, horrible, no good situations. It’s also scary. Which he will admit freely.

“So…” Stiles starts awkwardly, scrubbing a hand against his cheek. “Your dad’s a hunter, huh?”

Allison sighs and drops her head into her hands, whimpering like… well, like a wolf. “He shot me in my arm with a crossbow. If Derek wasn’t there he probably would have found me and…” she trails off, not wanting to finish that thought. Not needing to.

“Sounds like you guys need to log some good ol’ fashion family therapy sessions.”

“Stiles!” she gasps, incredulous.

“Sorry, sorry. I use humour as a coping mechanism,” he explains, holding his arms up in supplication.

Allison huffs a laugh. “You don’t say.” The amused glint disappears from her eyes almost immediately, thoughts drifting back to painful memories. Both emotionally and physically. Her fingers trailing the unblemished skin of her forearm where she likely got shot. “I don’t know how I’m going to hide it from him. We’ve always been close.”

“Ally,” Stiles begins, voice gentle as he rests his hand on top of hers. “Even if he finds out—which, he won’t unless you want him to because you’re reasonable and level-headed and you’re going to be all over controlling this werewolf thing. The first full moon is always supposed to be the hardest. You’ll find your anchor and you’ll be the chillest, most badass werewolf of all time. But even _if_ your dad finds out… I mean, he’s your father, he loves you. Right?”

A grateful smile tugs at the corners of her mouth until she’s smiling, dimpling. But it doesn’t reach her eyes, brows drawn, hopeful but sad. Allison nods tentatively. “Yeah. I just hope it’s enough.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the weekend passes without incident. Stiles spends most of his time locked in his bedroom, researching and skyping with Allison. He finds all kinds of meditation and focusing techniques for her to try, to help her centre herself when she’s aggravated or angry or upset, which seem to be key triggers for the wolf within.

Stiles has also been keeping tabs on how the murder investigation is going. Asking his dad questions – most of which are deterred with fond eye rolls and sighs – and ‘accidentally’ overhearing his phone calls. Given all the mystical and supernatural aspects of the case, it’s understandable that the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department are struggling to come up with answers.

“Scotty! My man!” Stiles cheers as he approaches their lunch usual lunch table where Isaac, Danny and Scott are sitting. “How’s the family?”

Scott grins, lopsided and blinding, rising from his chair to pull Stiles into a bro hug. Scott’s been away for the past few weeks due to his grandmother falling ill and his mother deciding to prolong their stay to look after her. Deeming it necessary for Scott to miss the first week of junior year.

“Yeah, doing much better, man. Thanks for asking.”

With one friendly slap on the back they separate and Stiles sits where he’d placed his tray. He and Scott grew up together and have been friends for as long as he can remember. But since freshman year they’ve drifted, Scott tending to gravitate towards Danny – despite proximity to Jackson douchery – and Stiles towards Isaac. They’re still friends, just not as close as they once were.

“You’ve missed so much, dude,” Stiles says, hoeing into his sandwich and talking around it, much to Danny’s disgust.

“Stiles, chew with your mouth closed and stop talking for, like, ten seconds,” he complains. To which Stiles grins at him, flashing a mouth full of half-chewed baloney and cheese and pickles. Danny rolls his eyes.

Scott’s face falls as he pouts. “What? How? I was only gone three weeks.”

“They found a dead body in the woods,” Danny explains when Stiles hesitates, the word ‘body’ making him cringe now that he knows her identity. “It was cut in half and partially buried by the old, burned down Hale house.”

Scott’s eyes are wide. “ _What?_ People don’t _die_ in Beacon Hills,” he says, squeaking with shock. They frown at him. “You know what I mean. People don’t get murdered here.”

 _Except Hale’s apparently_ , Stiles thinks darkly. His mouth falls open to speak when someone suddenly sits down in the seat beside him. Stiles squawks and flails, knocking his open bottle of water over, but Allison catches it before a single drop spills. The entire table is staring at her but she’s watching Stiles with round, worried eyes.

“ _Oh_ my God, Ally! You scared the crap outta me,” Stiles says, clutching his chest where his heart is attempting to return to its normal rhythm.

“We have a problem.”

“I’d say more than one at this point,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Haven’t you heard?” Allison questions, brows furrowing. She looks like someone kicked her puppy. Or, she _is_ the kicked puppy. “About the bus driver?”

“You mean the guy splattered all over the school bus?” Jackson says offhandedly, sitting down beside Danny. “They found him this morning, torn to shreds in the bus. The cops are still out there last I saw.” They all turn to him – except Scott, whose jaw is still on the floor as he stares at Allison – and when he glances up his gaze flickers between them. “What?”

“Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘tact’?” Isaac asks, raising a single eyebrow.

Jackson scowls. “I know that it’s a waste of fucking time, Lahey.”

“Harsh,” Danny says. “But factual.”

“Wait, does that mean Derek’s innocent?” Allison asks, voice hopeful in a way that Stiles wasn’t expecting. “I mean, if Derek was locked away when it happened…”

“Uh, yeah, I meant to message you this morning,” Stiles says, fiddling with his plastic spork guiltily. “They released Derek early this morning. His alibi checked out, he was in New York at the time of death and the body… the _girl_ , she was Laura Hale. His older sister.”

The pained whine that information elicits from Allison can be only be described as animal. She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with surprise and watery with genuine sorrow. Rising to her feet, Allison is walking away before anyone can even react. Stiles scrambles to his feet, chair scraping back jarringly, and he shoots Isaac a meaningful look before hurrying after Allison.

“Er, her family were, um, close with the Hale’s…” Stiles hears Isaac explain awkwardly before he’s out of earshot.

Stiles finds Allison just outside of the cafeteria, hunched and leaning against the wall. He approaches carefully, hand finding her elbow as he stands before her.

“What happened, dude?”

She trembles with a shuddering breath but doesn’t appear to be crying. “I can feel it. I can feel his grief, his pain. As if it’s my own.”

“Whose?”

“Derek’s.”

Stiles frowns. “He seemed fine the last few times I’ve seen him.” Allison shakes her head adamantly. He doesn’t understand it but he trusts her word. “Maybe it’s some weird pack thing. Did you join his pack the other night? I can only assume it’s like joining a gang or a cult, sign your name on the dotted line, get a symbolic leather jacket and hand over your spleen.”

Allison huffs a laugh and straightens, the sadness creasing her face smoothing out. “I don’t know. Maybe. I accepted his help, his support. It felt natural.”

“Yup. Definitely sounds cult-y.”

“I need to go see him.”

“What? No. Absolutely not,” Stiles protests, waving his arms emphatically. “Murderer he may not be, but he’s still scary as all hell. Definitely not worthy of trust.”

Her gaze darts around warily and she moves closer. “The man who died on the bus. Last night I had a dream about him. It was… vivid. It felt like I was there. It felt like I—like I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t know…” Allison confesses, bowing her head. “Derek’s the only one who can help me—”

Stiles squawks indignantly.

“You can both help me,” she amends quickly, trying to make him feel better with all her kindness. “He has the practical experience and you have the research and theorising.”

“Oh don’t patronise, Ally,” he drawls dramatically and without venom. He huffs a sigh. “Okay, fine, we’ll go after school to see the Big Bad Werewolf. But if he murders me I’m haunting your ass for the rest of your wolfy life. I’m talking flickering lights and random shit breaking and cold spots, the whole shebang. Beware.”

Allison laughs, shaking her head at him. “You don’t have to come.”

“Like hell I don’t. I have to make sure he doesn’t make you drink the Kool-Aid.”

 

* * *

 

“This is _such_ a bad idea,” Stiles says, so many times now that sweet, lovely Allison has started rolling her eyes at him from the passenger seat of his Jeep. “It would be so ironic if he murders me and buries me where he buried his sister.”

“No, that’s just morbid.”

He’s nervous. A vast understatement. He feels itchy and twitchy and on edge. He feels like he wants to just crawl out of his skin. Which is an ironic metaphor considering the lycanthropy filled direction his life has taken. And who the hell saw that one coming? Certainly not Stiles, not even in his wildest dreams. Too bad half of the werewolves he knows are evil assholes who probably want to maim him.

“Stiles, it’ll be fine,” Allison assures, eyeing his fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel. “Derek hasn’t hurt anyone—”

“That we know of.”

“—he cooperated with your dad and the police and he helped me.”

 _And he saved me from being ripped to ribbony shreds by you_ , Stiles adds mentally, knowing Allison doesn’t remember it and wanting to keep it that way. Despite the whole Superwolf, life-saving thing, there’s just something unsettling about Derek. Stiles doesn’t know specifically what, though he could probably bullshit a decent list, he just doesn’t like Derek.

Pulling up outside the Hale house, Stiles doesn’t allow himself any time to reconsider and dives in headfirst. It’s what he’s best at after all. Allison calls out to Derek, probably hoping not to go into the creepy house, but there’s no response. She glances back at Stiles and smiles tentatively before leading them up the porch stairs and through the perpetually unlocked front door.

It’s quiet inside and Allison is uneasy, head tilting, searching for any hint of Derek’s presence. If he’s here though she should be able to at least hear his heartbeat, but she’s frowning like she can’t detect anything. So Derek can’t be here. Right?

“Why are you here?” Derek’s naturally smooth voice is cut through with a threatening growl as it echoes all around them, almost impossible to discern the direction. Even Allison glances around helplessly.

“I need your help,” Allison admits freely, gaze darting searchingly.

“Why did you bring _him_?”

Stiles resists rolling his eyes. “Come on, dude. I’m just here to help Allison. Nothing more.”

That seems to make Derek angrier, riling him enough to flush him from his hiding place atop the stairs to loom over them. His eyes are glowing, bright breathtaking blue in the gloom of their charred surroundings. Allison stops Derek’s charge down the stairs, standing protectively in front of Stiles but Derek never takes those hard, accusing eyes off him.

Sighing heavily, Stiles realises his mistake. “Okay, okay, I’ll apologise.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise and he folds his arms over his chest, the epitome of a silent ‘this ought to be good.’ It’s difficult to focus on though when Derek’s in a very tight Henley and the defensive positioning makes all his ridiculously defined muscles bulge. Stiles clears his throat and, relaxing marginally, Allison steps aside but remains cautious.

“I’m sorry I got you arrested. Though, to be fair, you were all lurky creepy guy in the woods and family members are always first suspects and it cleared you of suspicion,” Stiles says, rambles, flailing his arms a little to relieve the awkward churning in his gut. Remorse has never been his strong suit. Derek scowls. “Okay, not the point. I shouldn’t have made assumptions and I’m sorry about what happened to your—to Laura.”

Stiles recognises the hurt that crosses Derek’s expression before he shutters it away behind his perpetual scowl. Allison curls in on herself, letting out a quiet whimper. Derek turns to her, slow and uncertain, frowning in confusion.

“Yeah, um, she’s kinda been doing that all day,” Stiles explains, glad attention has been drawn away from his awkwardness. “Did you, like, imprint on her or something? Bring her into your pack?”

“I don’t have a pack,” Derek grinds out. The ‘anymore’ hanging heavily in the musty air of the house where the majority of his family—his pack—died.

“I can feel your emotions,” Allison says sheepishly.

Derek stares at her, pale and rigid, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Do you know what’s happening to her?” Stiles prompts, trying to keep his voice calm. He feels like any wrong word or tone or movement could startle either of them. “It sounds like a pack thing to me, like a bond. Perhaps the other night you bonded with each other.”

Derek’s gaze moves to Stiles, eyes narrowing and scanning down Stiles’ body like he’s seeing him for the first time. When Derek looks back at Allison something softens in his expression.

“It’s possible. It’s uncommon for two Omegas to bond without an Alpha, but it’s not unheard of,” Derek finally responds and Stiles nods along, recalling reading something similar. “Even more uncommon for a bitten Omega, who would generally seek the Alpha who bit them. You still don’t know who it is?”

Allison shakes her head slowly. “No. But I, um—I think I saw it last night. Or… I don’t know.” She squeezes her eyes closed and pushes her fingers through her long, dark hair. “It seemed like a dream, but I _felt_ like I was there. I think he called me, the Alpha, and I was there when the bus driver was killed. I could feel his suffering, his terror, his blood all over my skin.”

Stiles grimaces. “That doesn’t mean that—”

Suddenly Derek growls challengingly and it reverberates through Stiles, fear trembling down his spine. Allison’s reaction is immediate, her eyes shining golden in the dim light and lips curling back from her teeth. Stiles takes an instinctive step away from the werewolves but by the time he does they’ve already calmed.

“You didn’t kill him,” Derek concludes assuredly.

Relief soothes over Allison’s face and the tension in her shoulders instantly relaxes. Stiles reminds himself, _werewolf pack thing,_ before he complains aloud about her immediate trust in Derek. Because, seriously? The guy looks like the solitary lumberjack serial killer to avoid in any woods based horror movie. Instead, he focuses on his incredulity.

“What? How would you even know? What did you just do?”

Derek is back to regarding him like he’s the world’s biggest annoyance. “I’d be able to smell it on her if she’d killed a man less than twenty-four hours ago.”

And, wow, what absolute bullshit. Stiles knows deflection when he hears and sees it. “Bullshit. That doesn’t explain the whole growling thing.”

Derek merely snarls irritably.

“Oh good, back to the nonverbal. Although, I suppose, technically, all the grr,” Stiles scrunches up his face and curls his hand into a demonstrative claw, “ _is_ verbal. For wolves. But seriously, dude, would it kill you to use your words? You do know words, right? I mean, you’re not some illiterate, caveman, despite all the grunting and eyebrows.”

Derek’s glower is at full power, like he wants to burn through Stiles with his laser eyes… Werewolves don’t have laser eyes, do they?

Stiles’ arms flail in a conceding, despairing motion and he retreats to the porch where he doesn’t have to look at Derek Hale’s annoying scowly face and general ridiculous attractiveness. The man is the epitome of scary and arousing, in all sorts of confusing ways that Stiles refuses to think about.

“So, um, will you help me?” Allison asks quietly, voice full of hope and probably powering up her massive Bambi eyes that no person with a soul can resist. Except maybe Derek, because he probably eats Bambi on a regular basis. And _there_ is a mental image Stiles wishes he’d never contemplated.

“I don’t…” Derek considers and Stiles can hear the waver in his voice. The first hint of uncertainty Stiles has heard in him. “Okay,” he says, slightly firmer but sounding like he’s going to regret it.

Allison’s relieved sigh is audible and when Stiles enters she almost looks like that bright, sweet girl he met in the woods that terrifying night that changed their lives. It settles some of Stiles nerves to see her less distressed. Even if he still doesn’t trust Derek.

“Thank you, Derek. Seriously, I—thank you,” Allison says sincerely. Derek simply nods, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Okay, so, where do we start?”

Derek folds his arms over his impressive chest, scrutinising her. “Most important is your control, having you at school and around your family is incredibly dangerous. We’ll focus on finding—”

“An anchor, right?” Stiles interrupts, grinning proudly. Derek turns his head slowly, eyebrows raised in judgemental surprise. It certainly doesn’t feel like a victory, but Stiles’ taking it anyway.

“An anchor?” Allison asks, glancing between them, because she’s an angel and _she_ knows Stiles is helpful.

“It’s something that grounds you so that you don’t rage out mindlessly and allow the wolf within to take control. It’s something that keeps you connected to your humanity when your wolfy instincts just want to bite and maim,” Stiles explains, probably too bluntly considering the uncomfortable expression on Allison’s face.

Derek’s glowering at him – but, you know, what’s new? – like he wants to ask ‘who’s the werewolf here?’ all sassy like, but is far too nonverbal caveman for that. Instead, he turns to Allison.

“Is he going to be here the whole time?”

Which, rude.

Allison winces. Also rude. “Yeah, we’re a package deal,” she says with conviction, so, he supposes she wins back her friendship points. “Stiles is my Yoda.” Aw, _and_ a Star Wars reference. A+ friendship right here.

“What? Small annoying and never shuts up?”

“Oh, wow, dude. You did _not_ just insult Yoda,” Stiles complains, face scrunching in disgust. “That is a new low, even for you. And here I was willing to dub you Obi-Wan but now you’re being demoted to Qui-Gon.”

“Qui-Gon isn’t a demotion, he’s Obi-Wan’s master,” Derek says, bitchface firmly in place. And, really, if Stiles weren’t so perturbed by this argument and focused on his need to dispute these ludicrous statements, he’d be amazed by the fact that Derek Hot Like Burning Hale is a freaking nerd. “Also, Liam Neeson.”

“Okay. Point. But the first episode is so crap that literally nothing in it counts. So. Good try, buddy.”

Allison clears her throat and Stiles glances over to find her watching them with amusement. “I hate to interrupt this Star Trek powwow but I have to be home in an hour.”

And, wow. So much for friendship affirming Star Wars referencing.

“Star _Wars_ ,” Stiles and Derek correct at the same time.

Allison’s eyebrows rise and her smile broadens into an all-out dimply grin. Derek looks more uncomfortable than Stiles has ever seen him, actually squirming before storming out the front door.

“Come on,” he huffs gruffly and when Stiles moves, “ _Not_ you.”

Stiles staggers through his aborted step, huffing exasperatedly at Derek’s broad back as he disappears out the front door. Allison hesitates, glancing back at Stiles uncertainly with her large brown eyes, looking far too much like a puppy seeking permission.

“It’s fine. Go be wolfy and howl at the not yet risen moon.” He waves off her concern. “I’ll be fine.”

She gives him a grateful smile before leaving, and when Stiles looks around the quiet, husk of a home he’s now all alone in, he’s not so sure. He’s mildly terrified even. Especially with the blood-curdling backing track of distant growls and snarls. Still, that damn overwhelming curiosity of Stiles’ leads him to wandering around said husk of a home. Because he’s _all alone_ in the Hale house.

The entrance way opens up to the spacious, yet fire ravaged, living room. Stiles can immediately imagine how nice it would have been in here, cosy and warm, with the fireplace and damaged-beyond-repair-but-clearly-comfortable-and-probably-expensive furnishings.

Walking the length of the room, he exits through a second door that leads around to the kitchen, which isn’t nearly as damaged at the living room. There is still debris and ash scattered over the floor, walls scorched with sweeping black marks, but the walls and benches and floors are intact. It opens onto a dining room that is in much the same condition. Stiles is no arson expert but he suspects the fire started on the other side of the house.

Stiles’ walking back through the kitchen to snoop upstairs when something shivers over his skin like a warm breath. He freezes, eyes darting as panic swirls in his stomach. There’s something here. Someone. His fingers tingle and he curls them into his palm protectively.

_Aren’t you going to help me with this?_

He whirls, but there’s no one. The voice is directionless, hollow, resonating around the empty room. Then he sees her. Long brown hair, sharp blue eyes, lit softly and looking at something Stiles can’t see. His heart is hammering but somehow, at the sight of her, his breathing calms and he feels safe. Even though, logically – ha! – he’s fairly certain she’s a ghost, judging by the non-solid form and wavering edge.

_C’mon, Grumpy Guts, you wanted chocolate chip cookies._

She smiles fondly as she turns to the bench, stirring a bowl that isn’t there and humming Heart of Glass. She glances up at him, actually _looks_ at Stiles and grins, knowing and mischievous.

“Stiles?”

“Oh holy _shitfuck_!” Stiles jolts like he’s been electrocuted, arms wind-milling and smashing his hand into the bench. Also, he’s certain his heart stopped beating for a second there and he’s going into cardiac arrest. Probably. “Ow, ow, _fucking ow_!”

Clutching his battered hand to his chest, Stiles looks up to see Allison watching him, grimacing guiltily, and Derek looming behind her, eyes narrowed on Stiles suspiciously.

“Jesus, Stiles. Are you okay?”

“Yep. Yep. Just a little broken. No biggie,” he squeaks, because his hand feels like it’s on fire and his stomach is doing that twisting, nauseated thing. Which is never cool. “We’re going to have to have some serious talks about this appearing randomly and sneaking up on me thing.”

“I called your name three times,” Allison says slowly, concern furrowing her brow. “To your face.”

“What were you doing in here?” Derek questions, all accusation and wariness.

Meeting Derek’s gaze is a mistake. Blue-green eyes of ice, of storm and snow, of hail, of extraordinary power and unspeakable vulnerability. Her eyes. His eyes. Hale eyes.

“Nothing, nothing. I just thought I saw a mouse or a rat or like a really huge cockroach. You might have an infestation on your hands or something, man. Might want to get that checked out,” Stiles says, speaking too fast and with a slightly manic laugh. He glances at Allison. “You guys finished? Yeah?” She nods tentatively. “Better get you home then, dude. C’mon, let’s go.”

Allison splutters and laughs awkwardly but doesn’t complain as Stiles marches her out of the house. He can feel Derek’s gaze on him, worried and vigilant. But he doesn’t have that usual anxious, skin crawling feeling, that feeling like he’s prey. No, because he saw genuine fear in Derek’s expression. And usually that would be something to revel in, the fact the Stiles, a human, could make Derek, the Big Bad Werewolf, scared. But it only makes him feel itchy and guilty and wrong. And he doesn’t even know why.

“Thank you, Derek, again,” Allison says, hovering at the passenger door of the Jeep as Stiles scrambles inside. “Um, is tomorrow afternoon okay?”

He merely nods affirmation.

As soon as Allison closes the door, Stiles is backing the Jeep up and getting the heck out of Dodge. Bouncing quickly down the dirt road, Allison waits likely until she can no longer sense Derek before she turns to Stiles.

“What the hell was that? Why were you being weird?”

Expecting it, Stiles shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Allison,” he says with exaggerated pronunciation, tapping his ear indicatively. “I’m always weird. How have you not noticed?”

Allison narrows her eyes on him, but seems to trust him enough to let it go. “I suppose you’re right.”

Stiles gasps dramatically. “Well you didn’t have to agree so quickly! How’d training with Qui-Gon go?”

She goes along with the subject change, explaining what Derek had her doing in order to keep her werewolfy cool. And Stiles’ grateful for it, because if Derek scrambled her senses in the house earlier he sure as hell can again, he could still be following without her knowing. Stiles’ not willing to risk it. Especially not if he saw what he thinks he saw.

Laura Hale.

 

* * *

 

His pen bounces against his knee rapidly and without rhythm, another pen wedged between his lips as he chews it absently. His eyes are glued to the screen of his laptop and his leg is up on the desk at a ridiculous yet comfortable angle. His gaze darts over the words, not for the sake of absorbing information but searching for keywords.

The door slams and Stiles lets out an inglorious shriek, jerking backwards and landing in an inelegant heap, desk chair and all.

“What the _hell_ , Dad?” he grouses, not bothering to get up, because, _hello pain my old friend_. “I could have swallowed my pen or stabbed myself with it or broken my laptop or my leg—”

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’ll live, you’re robust,” he says unapologetically. “Allison is here.”

She’s standing behind his dad, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth to contain her laughter and brown eyes sparkling with amusement. The absolute traitor.

Stiles gesticulates loudly. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Well, have fun, you two,” his dad says wryly, having too much of his own fun. Stiles will never begrudge his father fun, not with how hard he works, but at Stiles’ expense? Nah uh, no way. “Keep the door open.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mumbles before the words register. “Wait—what?”

But his dad is already gone, leaving Allison doubled over and shaking with laughter in the doorway. Stiles rolls his eyes at her and gingerly picks himself up, groaning at the ache in his back. Allison straightens and grimaces sympathetically.

“Oh, are you okay?”

“Like you care, traitor,” he bristles without venom and she merely continues smiling at him, though it does have a repentant softness to it now. “What brings my wolfy BFF to the Stilinski man cave?”

She narrows her eyes on him. “Sometimes you say things that make me wonder at your sanity.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Okay, so I apologise in advance, but my parents want you to come over for dinner,” she says, wincing apologetically like it’s the worst thing in the world. Which, yes, admittedly not ideal. Scary hunters Derek Hale himself is scared of. But not the end of the world. Stiles isn’t worried. He’s about to say as much when Allison rambles on in a disturbingly Stiles-like fashion.

“Because, you know, I’ve been using studying with you as an excuse to train with Derek this past week. And, I mean, you’re technically there anyway, studying. In actuality you _are_ my friend and I spend most of my time with you, so, you should probably meet them. Maybe even it’d be good for you to get in their good graces and that could help with the whole werewolf thing and you’re good at reading people so you could scope out how much they know. Maybe?”

When Allison finishes she’s not even out of breath. Which is impressive. But, also, unfair. Because being a werewolf is totally cheating. She’s smiling at him hopefully and, while he was never going to say no, it’s kind of fun leaving her hanging.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees eventually and grins watching her sag in relief. He glances at the time on his laptop to see that it’s late in afternoon. Huh. He didn’t even notice the day go by. “Tonight?”

“Yeah if you’re…” she trails off as she notices the webpage he has open. “Are you researching _ghosts_? Stiles…? What’s going on?”

“Just keeping up the research, learning what else is out there. We can never be too careful, you know. I mean, if there are werewolves there must be other supernatural things, maybe even all of them. Which is marginally terrifying.”

Allison crosses her arms and raises a single eyebrow, looking markedly like Derek. She’s been spending way too much time with _both_ of them.

“Nope. No way. I’m putting my foot down. You said you’d tell me when you knew what you were talking about but since that doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere,” she says, indicating to the old texts and notebooks filled with messy scrawl stacked on his desk. “I trust you with all of my werewolf stuff. You can trust me too, Stiles.”

Stiles makes a pained, considering face, because of course she had to go bring out the ‘T’ word _and_ the Bambi eyes. Playing dirty, Argent. So unfair.

“Okay, fine,” he sighs, indicating to his bed where she promptly sits, focusing her attention on him. “Derek’s not… nearby is he?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “No. Jesus, you’re as paranoid as each other.”

And… okay. He’s not touching that.

“I saw Laura,” Stiles says, cutting to the chase.

“Yeah, you—you found her body,” she says, voice soft with sadness. And that, right there, is exactly why he didn’t want to discuss this. Making Allison sad feels like punching a unicorn or stealing all the light from the world. It’s a very bad, no good thing.

“No, I mean, I _saw_ her. That day you found me freaking out in the kitchen of the Hale house, that’s because I was seeing her. And yes, at first I thought I was just seeing things or projecting or tripping on some asbestos or something. Then I saw her again, and again. She was younger and doing different things and talking to people who weren’t there.”

Allison’s eyes are wide, emotions washing over her face in quick succession. Surprise, disbelief, sorrow, intrigue, before finally settling on an amalgamation of them all.

“You think—you think she was a ghost?”

Stiles leans forward in his desk chair, resting his elbows on his knees and scrubbing his hands over his short hair. This is where his research is infuriatingly getting him nowhere. There’s simply too much information available on spectres and he’s been discrediting more information than actually ascertaining answers.

“I don’t know. It’s what she seems like; all glowy and spectre-like, with more soft, shimmery lighting than a Bowie music video.”

“Are those the technical terms?” Allison questions, lip quirking with a hint of amusement. Stiles huffs a laugh. Inappropriately timed humour, definitely spending too much time with him. “Laura wasn’t killed at the house though. She died out in the woods.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, it doesn’t really make sense. Especially when there were so many others that died there. My vast knowledge of sci-fi and fantasy tells me they’re memory echoes, events that happened in the past just repeating.”

Sighing heavily, looking confused and out of depth, Allison pushes her curls back from her face and starts to pace the small room. Stiles knows the feeling well.

“So, you haven’t seen anyone else? Just Laura.”

“Just Laura,” he confirms.

“When it happens are you the only one there?”

“No. You were there for the end of first one and all of the most recent one.”

Allison stops and her eyes widen. “I was there? I haven’t seen anything! Does that mean you’re magic or something? A ghost-whisperer?”

Stiles scoffs a laugh. “Nah, I doubt it. My theory is that it’s Laura making the connection and not me. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”

“You say she’s doing different things,” Allison says, eyes narrowing contemplatively. “Was there ever a constant? Like, in her clothes if it was an important day, or in what she’s doing if it’s leading up to an important event.”

Huh. He hadn’t thought about that. As far as he could remember she was dressed differently, and certainly different ages, in one she was a teenager while the other two she was an adult. Making cookies and reading a book, talking to—

“Derek,” Stiles recalls and subsequently sighs. Because he should have seen that coming, the remaining Hale. “Laura’s talking to Derek. At least, I assume. She only ever calls him things like ‘Grumpy Guts’ and ‘Mr. Grumbles’ and it’s nice to know he’s always been this surly.”

“Sounds like Derek. We should tell—”

“No!” Stiles shoots up from his chair, pointing an accusing finger. “Nope. No freaking way. He already wants to murder me. How well do you think he’ll react to me telling him I’m seeing his recently murdered sister around the house where his entire family died?”

Hurt washes over Allison’s expression and he feels slightly guilty for the harshness of the words and tone. Stiles knows he’s capable of being a complete asshole sometimes, it doesn’t usually bother him, but, shit, he really feels it when he incidentally directs it at Allison. If anyone is undeserving of his assholery, it’s her.

“Look, Ally, it’ll cause more harm than good to bring things up that the dude’s clearly trying to move past. Especially when we know nothing more than that it’s happening. If I learn enough, find out why it’s happening, then we’ll tell him.”

She smiles softly and nods. “Okay. I trust your judgement.”

Stiles eyes her speculatively. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Allison, she’s possibly the most trustworthy person he’s ever met. The problem is her pack connection, which he totally cannot blame her for, but he’s worried her loyalty to her pack with Derek will instinctively outweigh her loyalty to Stiles.

Packs are serious shit. He’s been reading about them avidly all week. Werewolves, like real wolves, have a social structure. The more dominate wolves have power over the rest, generally Alphas over Betas, but even among the Betas there are often those with more authority. Even disregarding that, pack is basic nature, pack is life and survival and family.

So, if Allison is pack with Derek – and he can see it developing before his very eyes, every afternoon training session – she will always chose Derek over Stiles. She won’t have a choice. And that leaves him apprehensive. It also hurts more than he’ll ever admit.

“We should probably go.” Allison glances down at her watch. “My mother won’t appreciate tardiness,” she says mockingly, rolling her eyes. “She used to be a teacher. You should probably… wear something nicer.”

“Ack.” Stiles glances down at himself and grimaces. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt and he hasn’t showered today. “Give me fifteen and I’ll shower and everything?”

She laughs and nods. “Sure. I’ll go hang out with your dad.”

“You _are_ his favourite.”

“That is a lie and I don’t even have to hear your heartbeat to know it.”

 

* * *

 

Roles reversed, Allison is jittering out of her skin and Stiles feels cool as a cucumber. He’s not quite sure why she’s so nervous, they’re her parents. And, okay, there is a vague possibility they’ll want to literally kill her if they find out what she is, but they don’t know. While it would be great for her parents not to hate Stiles, their opinions aren’t overly important, especially if they’re evil werewolf murderers, then he couldn’t care less what they think.

And they’re not, in fact, a couple. Despite the numerous mocking jokes his dad continues to make. Stiles’ certain his dad believes they’re not together but likes to tease him about it.

“Meeting the parents, huh?” his dad had joked as they’d left.

Usually Allison takes it in her stride, dimpling with amusement, but she’s tense today. Stiles just waved it off, hoping his dad would get bored of his mockery soon.

“Why exactly are you so worried about this?” Stiles asks as they approach the front door of the Argent house. “I mean, it doesn’t matter _that_ much what they think about me.”

“Of course it does,” Allison responds. “You’re important to me.”

The words are spoken with so much sincerity Stiles pauses and frowns at her where she stops beside him, sensing it more than anything because her wide eyes are locked on her house. Allison says it simply, like it’s the most obvious and natural thing in the world. While he feels the same, in the short time they’ve known each other Allison has started to feel like family, but he wouldn’t think to say so out loud.

It feels _significant_ , almost like a pack thing. But that’s not possible, he’s not a werewolf.

“Okay, _definitely_ don’t say stuff like that because that does make us sound like a couple,” Stiles says as they continue to the front door. Brushing his thoughts aside, it’s probably just because Allison’s a mature female with the emotional capacity to express such things whilst Stiles is an emotionally constipated teenage boy. Which, rude, but at least it makes sense.

They’re standing at the door and Allison makes no move to unlock it.

Stiles sighs. “At the very least this will be a good lesson in control if you’re this on edge.”

“They’re going to find out!” Allison hisses, widening her eyes at him in panic.

“Because I’m here?”

“Yes! You talk _a lot_. And you’ll probably accidentally hint at something or let something slip and—”

“In that case it’ll be a good lesson in control for me too,” Stiles remarks sarcastically.

Allison makes a pained noise.

“Dude, will you just chill? _Nothing_ is going to happen.”

Stiles leans over and rings the doorbell before Allison can freak herself out even more. The sadistic, mad scientist part of his mind thinks it would be interesting to see. Alas, he’s on good behaviour this evening with more pressing issues at hand.

The door is opened by Chris Argent, smile fake and creepy, and all of the wind goes out of Stiles’ sails. How the heck did he forget how utterly terrifying Allison’s parents are? He’s only seen Chris at a distance at school and that’s bad enough, but up close with those cold eyes focussed on him, all judgemental and knowing, he feels exposed.

“Hey, dad,” Allison says uneasily, stepping inside around the bulwark of Chris’ body. “I brought Stiles over for dinner.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Argent,” Stiles says with confidence pulled out of his ass and extends his hand the manly way his dad taught him.

Chris shakes his hand and Stiles focuses all his efforts into not wincing with the strength of Chris’ grasp, even when his knuckles feel like they’re going to pop. Wonderful, power posturing bullshit. Well. Two can play at that game.

“Stiles,” Chris says narrowing his eyes speculatively. “That’s an interesting name, Stiles.”

“It’s just a nickname; no one deserves the sheer torture of attempting to pronounce my real name.” He extricates his hand and shoots Chris a sharp smile. “Not even you.”

Chris raises his eyebrows in surprise and, if Stiles isn’t mistaken, he notes a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes but Allison interrupts before he can respond.

“Dad,” she huffs with exasperation. “Are you just going to stand there in the cold all night? You wanted him to come over for dinner, remember?”

Chris regards Allison a silent moment before opening the door wider and stepping aside to allow Stiles through. And, wow, this is super awkward. Almost like Chris is going out of his way to be so, probably in attempts to scare Stiles away. Good thing he’s accustomed to awkward.

Allison leads Stiles into the dining room, shooting him an apologetic smile over her shoulder as she goes. The table’s set and there’s a mouth-watering smell coming from the kitchen. More posturing, though this is the upper class suburban style. The first time Allison stayed for dinner at his house, they’d eaten grilled cheese in his messy room and studied werewolves.

God bless his father’s simple sincerity in never feeling like he needs to pull this phony crap.

“Oh, hello Stiles,” Victoria greets with a smile as she enters the dining room, setting a dish of vegetables on the table. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Wow, aren’t these people supposed to be good at lying?

“Hey, Mrs. Argent.”

“You do eat meat don’t you, Stiles?”

“I _love_ meat,” he says casually, taking his seat at the table and grinning. “Don’t allow myself much at home, gotta keep an eye on my dad’s eating habits. Have to protect that digestive system when you get older, right?”

Her eyes flare with annoyance and her overly tweezed brows rise. “Right. That’s good of you to care about him like that,” Victoria comments, voice as tight as her smile. “Chris, can you help me with the rest of the food?”

With a terse nod, Chris eyes them suspiciously before following Victoria into the kitchen. At which point Allison turns to Stiles and backhands him in the arm. And, ow. Girl doesn’t know her own supernatural strength. Knowing werewolves is definitely going to leave him even more bruised than ever; it was bad enough when it was just clumsiness he had to deal with.

“What the hell was that?” she hisses quietly, eyeing the kitchen door worriedly. “You’re supposed to be being nice and making them like you.”

“Have you met me?” Stiles hisses back, rubbing his mistreated arm. “I just spew inappropriate humour at people until they resent and tolerate me, or, in special cases, find it endearingly exasperating. Remind me, again, why I want them to like me?”

“Because you could help soften the blow when I tell them about… you know, the whole ‘grr’ situation. Just, please try a little harder and I’m sure they’ll be nicer. Please, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, geez. I’ll—”

“Shh, shh! They’re coming.”

He frowns, not really understanding why he isn’t allowed to talk to her, but not wanting to push her too far when she’s so anxious. As much control training as she’s been doing with Derek lately, this is certainly not the time or place to test the extent of her control, despite Stiles’ jokes.

Setting the last dishes of meat and vegetables on the table, Chris and Victoria take their seats at either end of the table. Stiles exchanges a few compliments about the meal as they serve themselves – because that’s a thing people do, right? – and they all seem to relax into the situation a bit. Until, of course, Chris speaks.

“So,” Chris starts, and, shit, nothing good follows that tone, “are you two together?”

“No, dad, we’re absolutely not and never will be,” Allison denies vehemently. “I already told you this.”

Stiles snorts. “Wow, thanks, I didn’t need that self-esteem anyway.”

Allison gives him a pointed ‘you’re not helping’ look.

“Right. Yeah, no, we’re definitely not. Allison’s like a sister to me,” he says, grinning brightly. “Boom, sister-zoned!”

“Stiles has a 4.9 GPA and plays on the lacrosse team,” Allison blurts in an attempt to change the subject. Chris and Victoria both raise their eyebrows at him, disbelieving. Ugh. Argents. Allison’s clearly adopted.

Well, this will be fun.

 

* * *

 

“What’s in the bag, little girl?” Stiles asks, making his voice all husky and creepy, as they climb out of the Jeep and make their way into the woods outside the Hale house.

“Stiles, for the last time, you’ll just have to wait and see.” Allison’s really starting to sound like Stiles’ dad with that fond sigh. They’re sports watching buddies now; Stiles didn’t even know Allison liked sports, but apparently she does. Either that or she likes chilling with him. Which Stiles certainly cannot blame her for, his dad is awesome.

“Yeah, well, patience isn’t my strong suit. Where are we meeting Derek?”

“We found this really good spot yesterday afternoon for… well, what I have in the bag. You’ll see,” Allison says, all dimples and mischief. Stiles groans dramatically. “Hey, is Isaac okay?”

Stiles frowns, glancing up at her worried expression and subsequently stumbling over a rock. “As far as I know Isaac’s fine. Why?”

“He’s seems jumpy lately, on edge and keeping to himself,” she says, gripping at the strap of her bag tighter as her brow furrows in thought. “And he flinches sometimes at seemingly nothing, just when people move too fast or something. And he smells… anxious, a lot. I don’t—I don’t know if he’s always been this way and I’m just noticing now or—” she shrugs.

“Uh, well, I mean, he’s always been a little jumpy and tends to keep to himself. He does work two jobs _and_ school so maybe he’s just getting behind on school work,” Stiles suggests, concerned by Allison’s concern. “But I’ll, um—I’ll have a talk to him. I have been a little too preoccupied with the werewolf menace to hang out with—”

“You’re the only menace here, Stiles.”

Stiles starts, gripping onto Allison’s arm reactively as Derek suddenly appears before them. Freaking sneaky ass werewolves. They do this to him all the time. Watch the soft little human flail. It’s fitting that the only time he sees Derek amused is at Stiles’ expense. Sadistic asshole.

Heart still rabbiting in his chest, Stiles merely sneers at Derek, his eyebrows twitching up in an unimpressed response.

“Oh, hey, you set up targets,” Allison comments, her voice light and joyful.

Frowning, Stiles glances up and notices the wooden figures standing at random points around the clearing. Creepy at first, considering they look like faceless people lurking – oh the irony – he notices they’re standing in a pattern of distances.

“Did you build these?” Stiles questions, inspecting the nearest one. They’re sturdy, made to withstand great force, and they’ve been put together rather impressively. Shit, he just sounded awed by Derek’s work. _Have to fix it_ , Stiles thinks urgently. _Must find something to mock_. “What, you ran outta red-paint for the bullseye?”

“Real targets don’t tend to have big red marks on their chests, it’s better training this way,” Derek explains.

“Better training for wh— _aaa_?”

Turning to find Allison aiming a bow at him, Stiles dives to the ground, leaves crunching dramatically beneath him. She lowers the bow and laughs, covering her mouth a little guiltily. Derek bows his head and scuffs his boots in the dirt and Stiles suspects he’s smiling.

“Stiles, I doesn’t even have an arrow notched,” Allison says breathily as her laughter fades.

“Yeah, I, ah—I knew that,” Stiles lies, scrambling to his feet.

He’d be embarrassed – well, no, he wouldn’t, because he just had a weapon aimed at him, loaded or not – but his attention is locked on the bow because it is _badass_. It’s a professional grade compound bow and those things are not cheap, and Allison wields it like it’s a natural extension of her arm.

“Woah, that thing is _awesome_.”

“Yeah. I was nationally ranked as a kid and my dad really wanted me to…” her voice fades out as what she’s saying seems to register.

“You think he was subtly training you to become a hunter,” Stiles speculates but Allison merely shrugs, eyeing the bow uncertainly. She’d seemed so excited about using it and Derek put all this effort into the training dummies – Stiles begrudgingly admits – for a reason, Stiles doesn’t want her to be deterred now. “Or, huntress. Is that the correct term?”

“Hun _ter_ ,” Allison corrects with a significant look, straightening her shoulders proudly. “There is absolutely no need for a gender specific terms in hunting.”

“Yeah, but, huntress is a cooler word. We could all be huntresses… Okay no, it got bad.”

Allison huffs a laugh and crouches to rifle through her equipment bag, pulling out a quiver and sliding gloves onto her hands. Stiles narrows his eyes on her pensively, then looks up at Derek, who is watching her, quiet and intrigued and a little tense.

“Okay, so, as awesome as this is, I don’t get why you guys are doing this for training,” Stiles says, moving to stand behind Allison for when she starts shooting. “I mean, you have the terrifyingly sharp claws and teeth, do you really need a bow?”

“It’s not to practice my shooting skills; it’s about my control.”

“Control is about keeping a balance between wolf and human,” Derek explains begrudgingly, eyes flashing to Stiles in irritation, not liking being questioned. “Allison already has good control because she’s focused and level-headed. Shooting, a connection to her human life, can only strengthen her focus, and therefore her control, when shifting.”

Stiles whistles high to low. “Not bad, Qui-Gon,” he admits teasingly. “You might get that promotion to Obi-Wan after all.”

Derek bristles, tendons in his jaw twitching as he clenches it.

Practically preening under the praise Derek had given – little as it was – Allison notches an arrow, aims and lets it fly confidently. The arrow hits dead centre in the wooden torso of the nearest target with a solid _thunk_.

“Told you, Ally. Most badass werewolf,” Stiles says and she turns to grin brilliantly at him, bowing. “All right, I’ll leave you to your wolfy training. Did you have homework you needed me to do, Ally?”

“No, it’s okay, I’ve got the weekend. Thanks anyway,” she says, smiling gratefully before grabbing another arrow from her quiver and turning back to the targets.

With the werewolves distracted with their training, Stiles makes his way back to the house. Usually he studies or wanders around the house to try and see more Laura memory echoes – he’s only seen her twice more in the past week, with no new details. Today he has another plan, a plan that may or may not get him flayed alive.

In roaming the burned out house, Stiles discovered a slightly less burnt bedroom upstairs where Derek has a bag of belongings and fresh blankets on a still standing bed. Because of course Derek is staying in the sad derelict house where most his family died. But Stiles isn’t doing this for Derek, no, this is purely selfish because he spends lots of time here now and would prefer it to be in semi-decent condition. He doesn’t feel bad for Derek because he’s sneaking ghostly peaks into the happy life Derek once had here or anything. Nope. Not at all.

Stiles walks around the back of the Jeep and starts pulling the cleaning supplies out, more than an awkward armful, but he manages to stumble inside with all of it. He figures he’ll start in the kitchen, because if there is anything those renovation shows he randomly watches with his dad have taught him it’s that ‘the kitchen is the heart of the home.’

Rolling up the sleeves of his red plaid shirt, Stiles sets to work sweeping the floor which is covered in ash and dirt and debris. Then he sweeps it into a bucket which he’ll dump in the woods when it’s full; he’s not sure what he’ll do with the larger pieces debris yet, piling them on the kitchen bench as a problem for later.

Honestly, the random shit he does when he’s bored. He should have his own reality show.

The kitchen floors almost… well, not _clean_ , but also no longer covered in crap, when he notices a figure at the door. Stiles whirls, heart slamming against his ribcage in fright, and sees Derek standing there. Derek’s eyebrows curve upwards and he tilts his head slightly in his ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing, Stiles?’ expression. Yes, specifically for Stiles, because there’s always a hint of ‘you’re an idiot’ when he makes expressions at Stiles.

“Uh, hey, I was just um…” Stiles’ mouth hangs open because apparently under the intensity of Derek’s eyes is when he finally runs out of words. He’s so going to die. Stiles licks his lips. “Okay, I know werewolves probably have a weird territorial thing that I’m totally crossing right now—”

Derek’s eyebrows descend into a scowl – or maybe that’s his neutral expression, Stiles still hasn’t worked that out – and his eyes narrow.

“Not the point. We hang out here a lot and you’re—well, I’m fairly certain you _live_ here, so I figured it would be better for all of us to be less inundated by debris. I seriously trip over the stuff every time I’m inside. Which, sure, isn’t saying much because I also frequently trip over nothing,” he rambles and really needs to stop. “Look, man, I was bored and sometimes I just need to do things and I wanted to clean the place. That’s all. I swear.”

“Fine,” Derek says after a terrifyingly long pause.

Stiles hesitates, gapes, certain he heard wrong. “What? Fine as in fine? As in okay, yes, go ahead?”

“Fine,” he repeats unhelpfully, a blink-and-you-miss-it smirk curving one corner of his mouth as he hastily turns on his heel and walks out. “Don’t break anything!”

And, okay, what the fuck? That was a joke. Derek Hale just made a joke. Stiles stares at the doorway Derek vacated, baffled and amused, a smile slowly curving at his mouth. He coughs when he realises what he’s doing and gets back to work.

Derek Hale did _not_ just make him smile. Derek Hale is _not_ funny. It’s just a fluke. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I refuse to believe that Derek knows nothing about werewolves and pack and supernatural shit as he seems to in canon. he was 16(?) when his family died and I call absolute bullshit that his mother taught him nothing. AND he was with Laura (who HAD been trained to be alpha) when she was alpha, she even had full wolf transformation, and you’re trying to tell me Derek knows so little? like. seriously Davis? gfto


	2. I'm Only Human Afterall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: panic attacks and severe anxiety

“We’ve got a problem.”

In the two months Stiles has known Allison this has become her catchphrase. Also, a tremendously accurate summary of their lives. Admittedly it’s been rather quiet the last few weeks, which is probably why he was expecting her ominous words.

Stiles merely raises his eyebrows in curious askance. His casual reaction also telling.

“My aunt’s visiting,” she says with a dramatic pause Stiles would fill with a teasing _‘dun dun dun!’_ if his mouth weren’t full of food. Not that that’s stopped him before, but Lydia’s sitting at the table and he has _some_ dignity and he’d prefer not to have the pitiful remnants of it shredded.

“Is she one of those cool aunts?” Lydia asks, because Allison left her dramatic pause hanging too long. “The kind of aunt who knows your parents are uptight, upper-middle white people so she takes you shopping to buy you sexy clothes or makeup or a vibrator. I have an aunt like that.”

“Speaking of uptight upper-middle white people, maybe that’s what’s perpetually shoved up Jackson’s ass,” Stiles taunts automatically.

“She said a vibrator, not a dildo, you idiot,” Jackson corrects snappishly, baring his perfect white teeth. He’d probably make a good werewolf… Or a really, _really_ bad one.

“Well, _you_ would know.” Stiles smirks; there aren’t many things more entertaining than stirring Jackson. He just makes it _so easy_ , how can Stiles resist? “You know, this explains so much about you.”

“Fuck you, Stilinski!”

“I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you, Whittemore?”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “I’m not gay, but if I was I could sure as hell do a lot better than you, Stillinski.”

“Your aunt?” Lydia prompts insistently, looking highly unimpressed with the direction of the conversation. Though, to be fair, she mostly always looks like that.

“Right, my aunt, she’s… in the family business,” Allison explains, side-eyeing Stiles, hinting at her hidden meaning. The family business, AKA hunting werewolves, obviously. “She arrived last night and—er, said she saw that wild animal that’s been attacking people. I was a bit worried about her, though she can _handle_ herself.”

If this aunt is in the family business she’s most likely Chris’ sister and therefore definitely able to handle herself. She’s obviously unharmed otherwise this would be a completely different conversation, but Allison _is_ worried, but not about her aunt. Clearly not about the rest of her family or she’d simply admit as much, and her friends are all at this table, so that leaves… Derek. What happened to Derek?

“That’s good then, if she’s okay,” Lydia says and when Stiles glances over at her she’s eyeing him and Allison suspiciously. Dammit. He told Allison they can’t have these conversations in front of Lydia, she’s annoyingly perception.

“She is, isn’t she? Alive and kicking? Remaining on this tumultuous hamster wheel we call life?” Stiles questions, babbles, tries to divert suspicion with an avalanche of words. Allison frowns at him like he’s crazy but nods anyway. “I mean, you wouldn’t be here, probably, if anything had happened. So all must be good. I’m sure she’ll be grateful if you _check in_ on her after school.”

Allison frowns at him, not reading his hidden meaning as well as he’d read hers. Which is understandable considering Stiles’ pretty good at reading people, perks of being the son of the sheriff. Her expression smooths into understanding after a moment though.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Will you please come with me, Stiles?” she asks, voice almost a pleading whine. Clearly he’d underestimated how worried she was. Who knew werewolves were so emotional. Maybe sensing people’s feelings has that effect on you. Or maybe something worse had happened than Allison can let on in front of an unwitting audience.

Stiles’ about to acquiesce with a casual grunt when he notices the unsettling silence around them. Scott’s uneven jaw is unhinged in envious disbelief, Jackson looks personally offended on behalf of pretty people everywhere, Lydia is still incredibly suspicious and even Danny’s expression is verging on incredulous. Stiles’ mildly offended, but understands the confusion at the hot girl asking the dorky class clown for emotional support. And though the two of them hanging out isn’t a new thing, he supposes Allison’s plea is a little strange to anyone who doesn’t know she’s a needy werewolf.

The real kicker is Isaac’s narrowed eyes, because at least _he_ knows about Allison having werewolf problems that leave her emotional and in need of frequent help. But then he hasn’t spent much time with Isaac recently, with all the werewolf stuff and Isaac working so much.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles agrees, ducking his head to ignore the others. Not before seeing Allison beam a smile at him and visibly relax.

“Thanks, Stiles.”

Allison starts an easy conversation with Lydia and the others seem to forget the exchange, falling back into their own conversations. And Stiles forgets his worry-by-proxy about Derek by provoking Jackson some more. It’s cathartic.

 

* * *

 

Stiles gave Allison an acknowledging wave across the parking lot before jumping in his Jeep, intending to meet her at the Hale house in their respective cars. It’s not one of their usual Training With Derek afternoons so Stiles hadn’t driven her to school this morning.

Shoving his backpack into the back, Stiles fastens his seatbelt to the warning of Dad’s voice perpetually in his head – _if I ever see you in that seat without your belt on I’m taking the keys for a month_ – and pulls out of his parking spot. The lot is fairly busy with everyone filing out of school excitedly after the final bell but Stiles has gotten out fairly quickly. At the front of the typical departing student convoy he accelerates for quick freedom and abruptly slams on the break when a dark figure stumbles out in front of him.

The familiar broad, leather-clad shoulders, tall dark hair and stormy expression easily discernible before he collapses into a pathetic werewolfy heap in front of the Jeep.

“Derek?” Stiles breathes, more to himself and in disbelief than anything.

Car horns immediately blare behind him and as much as Stiles would love to drive over Derek he probably shouldn’t in front of so many witnesses. Seriously considering it though. But Allison is by Derek’s side now, which definitely rules out simply driving forward.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Stiles leaps out of his Jeep and joins them, flipping off the honking drivers lined up behind him.

“What’s that smell?” Allison questions, eyes wide and frantically searching him for an injury. Dude looks like death, usually tanned skin pallid and grey. That can’t be good. “What happened?”

“I was shot,” Derek answers in his characteristically terse manner.

Allison stills in understanding and quietly says, “Kate.”

The expression that seeps into Derek’s strong features is one Stiles has never seen before. Vulnerable and uncomfortable and hurt beyond the physical pain he’s currently experiencing. It unnerves Stiles in a way he can’t even begin to explain and absolutely doesn’t understand. It just feels… wrong.

“Christ, dude, you look like death,” Stiles remarks, receiving a weary, but no less exasperated, eye roll from Derek. Anything to get that other expression off his face.

“That would be because I’m dying. It’s wolfsbane. I just don’t know what type.”

Derek’s face scrunches and he doubles over with a pained groan, cradling what Stiles suspects is his injured arm close to his chest. When he straightens his eyes flare blue, glowing and unnatural, jaw jutting out and hissing as if physically willing his fangs away. Which, okay, wolfing out in front of the student body, _super_ bad. Allison puts a supportive hand on Derek’s shoulder and Stiles glances around nervously.

“Dude, so _not_ the time,” he mumbles fretfully, seeing people starting to get out of their cars to see what’s happening.

Derek growls irritably.

“Stiles,” Allison says expectantly, and he knows what she’s asking without even saying the words. He swears under his breath and begrudgingly moves around to open the passenger door of his Jeep where she helps Derek climb in. “What do you need?” she asks Derek gravely.

“The bullet, find the bullet she used,” he answers, voice tense.

Stiles walks back around to the driver side, seeing Jackson narrowing his gaze on them. He looks almost as suspicious as Lydia, which is absurd because he’s nowhere near as intelligent. Perhaps she’s been confiding in him about her suspicions.

“I’ll find it as quickly as possible,” Allison says, nodding firmly. “Thanks, Stiles.”

“Be careful, Ally,” Stiles murmurs, already driving away but knowing she can hear him. He watches in his rear-view mirror a moment as Jackson approaches Allison. He’ll have to ask her about it later, Jackson’s been weird since lunch.

Stiles’ halfway home, on autopilot, before he realises he can’t take an injured werewolf – and ex-murder suspect – home where his dad will soon be off his shift. Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care, in fact he seems sort of out of it, leaning against the window breathing raggedly. Dying. Literally dying. There is a dude, an acquaintance he butts heads with on a regular basis, dying in his passenger seat. This is his life now.

He turns from his route and heads back in the direction of the Hale house. Then frowns. Why isn’t Derek there? He could have just called Allison and asked for her help instead of rocking up at school like a zombie-werewolf. He gets his answer when Derek seems to check back into reality to complain. Typical.

“No. No, we can’t go home,” he mumbles, like it’s Stiles’ home too. Dude really _is_ delirious. “The hunters, they—they’ll know we’ll go there. We can’t—she’ll know. I can’t protect us.”

Ignoring all those inclusive pronouns, Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls onto the side of the road. Where the hell are they supposed to go?

“What if Allison doesn’t find your little magic bullet? Huh?” Stiles questions, turning to him in frustration. He notes the sweat rolling down Derek’s ashen skin, sticking his inky black hair to his forehead, and the feverish tremor of bulky muscles as he struggles out his leather jacket. “I absolutely refuse to have anyone freaking _die_ in my Jeep, especially broody little werewolves with the vocabulary of a caveman.”

“I have a last resort,” Derek answers between panting breaths.

Stiles boggles at him, yelling in frustration. “What does that even mean? What last resort?”

As usual Derek ignores him, rolling up the sleeve of his dark, bloodied Henley to reveal a weeping bullet wound on the inside of his forearm. His muscles are tensed against the pain, and it looks _painful_. Throbbing red veins, swollen and grotesquely visibly under his chalky skin.

“Dude, _gross_ ,” Stiles complains, grimacing. Though it’s kind of cool. And also gross. And not healing? “This happened last night? It looks fresh. It’s not healing. Why is it not healing? Don’t you have, like, super healing? Kind of important super werewolf healing?” he rambles to keep his mind occupied and his gut from churning. It helps. A little.

“The wolfsbane.”

It’s not the satisfying detailed answer Stiles would like, but considering this is Derek it’s definitely the best he can hope for. So, wolfsbane stops werewolves from healing and makes them incredibly sick. It’s only in that moment that Stiles’ mind comes to a tumbling halt to realise that someone is actively attempting to kill his acquaintance slash grumpy werewolf mentor and is presently succeeding. And that is so not cool.

Derek relaxes back into his seat, breath steadying and coming out less ragged. Stiles rolls his eyes and grips his steering wheel. The last thing he wanted was to feel sorry for Derek freaking Hale, then he had to go and get shot and collapse in front of the Jeep all sick and dying and damsel in distress like. Note to self, never say that out loud, best way to get his spine ripped out.

“What the hell were you even doing out there last night?” Stiles questions harshly, annoyed at himself and annoyed at Derek and… well, everyone and everything really.

“Tracking the Alpha.”

“By yourself? When we know there are hunters in town?”

Rolling his head on the headrest, Derek meets Stiles’ incredulous gaze with a weak scowl. “Yes. The hunters are supposed to follow a code. Only hunting wolves who do harm to humans. At least, Chris does.”

The last part is mumbled so softly Stiles almost misses it.

“Kate doesn’t?” he prompts and Derek bows his head, hunching his shoulders defensively. That’s a yes then. “You should take Allison with you if you’re tracking the Alpha. You shouldn’t go alone.”

Derek glances up at him quickly, thick brows furrowed in confusion. “I would’ve thought you’d want the opposite. To have her involved as little as possible and keep her as safe as possible,” he says, almost accusing. It actually sounds like that’s what Derek wants. Stiles isn’t stupid enough to point out that Derek actually cares about Allison, he’ll just clam up with all his loner werewolf angst.

“I _would_ prefer that,” Stiles admits easily. “But Allison is kind and compassionate and, for some inexplicable reason, has a magical pack bond with you of all people; which means she’ll selflessly put her life on the line for you. Equating to her snooping through her non-code-following shoot-first-ask-questions-never hunter aunt’s things as we speak. Far more dangerous than watching your back on some late night runs through Beacon Hills pursuing the elusive Alpha. If she _had_ been there you may not have been shot.”

“If the Alpha calls Allison out—”

“I thought you said she has enough control to resist.”

Derek’s lips purse and he sets his jaw. “If you listened, _ever_ , I said she _probably_ has enough control to resist. It’s not as if we can test it.”

Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. Why the fuck does Derek have to be so damn difficult? For someone who speaks sparingly, sometimes not at all, he sure always has a freaking answer for everything. The stubborn smart ass.

“Just, next time, dude, at least tell her what you’re doing so she has the option. Also so we can avoid the super public whoops-hide-the-dying-werewolf fiasco.”

“How about this, shut your damn mouth for once and drive.”

Stiles scowls back at him and says, “You know what, I really don’t think you’re in any position to be barking orders at me!”

“Start the fucking car,” Derek says, slow and dangerously calm, “or I’m gonna rip your throat out with my teeth.”

And the high-beam glare is back, framed by that heavy foreboding brow and scruffy stubble. His blue-green eyes are pale and intense and slightly more wild than usual. Stiles remembers reading about how much more vicious and volatile Canis species can be when injured. The saying about backing a dog into a corner comes to mind.

Stiles staunchly holds his gaze for a long, drawn-out moment, but Derek doesn’t back down. Okay. Even dying he’s still scary. Totally unfair.

“I’m only doing this because I want to,” Stiles comments stubbornly as he starts the Jeep and pulls back onto the road. “Totally my idea and absolutely not because of anything you said.”

Derek doesn’t respond, his head lolling back against the headrest and his eyes closing. Driving around town aimlessly – which Stiles doesn’t actually mind, he loves driving his baby – Derek falls asleep fairly quickly. Stopped at a red light, Stiles glances over furtively, observing the relaxed set of Derek’s immense shoulders and the vulnerability of his expression, a small, pained line creased between thick eyebrows.

A car horn blares behind him and Stiles jolts, tearing his gaze from Derek to notice the traffic light has turned green. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he mumbles, accelerating across the intersection.

 

* * *

 

The sun’s set by the time he receives any response to his enquiring messages to Allison. His mind refusing to focus on anything other than worst case scenario: Allison captured, tortured and killed by her own family and Derek dying a slow and painful death beside him. _Thank you pessimism for all that wonderful nightmare material_ , Stiles thinks, frantically reaching for his phone at the ping of a message alert.

 **[07:14pm] Fr: Ally**  
_need more time, my family own TOO MANY bullets!_

Stiles inhales slowly and glances up at Derek, who seems to be stirring as Stiles pulls the Jeep over again. Derek doesn’t look like he has much more time, getting worse and worse by the hour.

 **[07:16pm] To: Ally**  
_Maybe we can help, can you call?_

The Imperial March barely even starts trumpeting before Stiles answers his phone, juggling it in his haste before getting it to his ear.

“Are you okay?” he asks in form of greeting.

“I’m not the wounded one, how’s Derek?” Allison questions, voice taut with worry.

“He’s…” Stiles gazes over at Derek; his breath is weak and he’s struggling to hold himself upright at this point. Stiles’ gut twists painfully at the thought of watching someone else wither away before him. He won’t let it happen. He’s going to fix this. “He’s starting to smell like dead dog,” he says, because morbid puns are his favourite kind of emotion shield.

“Stiles, this isn’t the time for jokes.”

He snorts a self-deprecating laugh. “You know exactly why this is the best time for my jokes. I use them to—”

“Ease your stress and focus, I know. Sorry,” Allison apologises unnecessarily, a common enough occurrence that Stiles has learned to stop pulling her up on it. She breathes a steadying breath, understandably stressed herself; caught between a rock and a hard place in trying to save Derek without being outed to her family. “Can Derek hear me?”

“Er, I assume so, I mean super werewolf hearing and—”

“Yes,” Derek grunts.

“I’m assuming you pulled the bullet out, can you give me any details about it? Like what calibre it was or what it was made of or—just anything you can remember,” Allison asks, sounding like she knows as much as Stiles does about guns. As in, a lot more than your average teenager should. To be fair he knows because his dad protects and serves, while her dad _hunts_ people.

“I don’t… It was about two or three inches,” Derek mumbles unhelpfully.

Stiles is about to tease Derek about being out-badassed by two teenagers but manages to bite his tongue because of course he wouldn’t know about guns, the weapons of the people who murder his kind. And who needs guns when your entire body – impossibly fast and strong with lethally sharp claws and fangs – _is_ a weapon?

“Wolfsbane isn’t easy to harvest,” Derek continues, a little more coherent after taking a moment to gather himself. “The bullets will be kept in a safe, protected place with ease of access.”

“Okay, that’ll actually help, I’ve mostly been looking in the main storage. They’re more likely to be in Kate’s personal things in that case,” she says pensively. “I’ll have to find an excuse to go into her room or something.”

“Oh, oh! Ask to borrow a condom,” Stiles suggests and immediately regrets it in the subsequent silence. It’s not his fault his horny teenage mind is at least partially contemplating sex at any given moment. Nor is it his fault he has no filter. Okay that might be his fault a little bit. “Or… something.”

“Stiles, why would I need a condom?” Allison questions at the same time Derek says, “ _Borrow_ a condom?”

Stiles clears his throat, face heating as he forcefully avoids Derek’s disturbed expression. No matter how amusing it is that his eyebrows don’t seem to know whether to rise or furrow. “I said ‘or something!’ Just—I’m sure you’ll think of something, you’re smart.”

“Wait, wait,” Derek murmurs, angling his head towards the phone at Stiles’ ear for the first time. “If you come across a Bestiary it could clarify the type of wolfsbane used.”

The call falls eerily quiet and Stiles momentarily fears Allison’s been caught by her family until she finally speaks. “Wait… what? What are you and Stiles doing…?”

Now it’s their turn to slip into confused silence.

“I mean, when I think about it I get it,” she rambles on. “I see it. With all the tension and the geek outs. But I really think this is taking it too far and _way_ too fast. I mean, in knowing you both you’re mentally about the same maturity. Even so, are you sure you’re ready for this Stiles? Is this what the condoms—?”

Mouth hanging open in an aborted response, Stiles slowly turns to Derek to see him just as confounded, heavy brow lower than usual and mouth downturned. Then Stiles realises what Allison means and. That’s just. No. _What?_

“ _Oh_ my God, stop talking!” Stiles interrupts hurriedly, feeling heat creep down the back of his neck. “Not bestiality! _Bestiary_ , Ally. _Bestiary!_ You know, a book cataloguing mystical creatures. Not. Not…”

“I’d like to point out that I’m not actually an animal,” Derek protests sullenly.

Stiles gapes at him and feels his eye twitch. Why is this a conversation that’s happening? Why is this his life? “ _Why_ would you even _clarify_ that? Why is _that_ the first thing you dispute? Why are we even discussing this?”

“I don’t know, Stiles. You can’t even account for half the shit you say when you’re _not_ dying in the passenger seat of some annoying kid’s car!”

“How am I the sane person in this conversation?” Stiles questions of the world or any god who deigns to listen. “Ally, for the love of all that’s holy, find that damn bullet or the Bestiary so we can fix Derek and go back to a time where I’m not the only person making sense!”

“You never make any sense” Derek mumbles and Stiles gets the distinct feeling he wasn’t supposed to say it out loud, he never speaks simple thoughts. Delirious, definitely delirious. Stiles would so be filming this like those drugged, surgery recovery patients on YouTube if not for the whole dying part.

“I’ll call you as soon as I find something,” Allison assures. “Where are you? At the house?”

Glancing around to figure out what street he’s on, Stiles shakes his head. “We can’t go there, your family knows Derek will be there. We’re just driving around because my dad’s at home and there is literally nowhere else safe to go.”

“Isaac, he’s working late at the clinic tonight.”

“How do you…?” Stiles has noticed them talking more since Allison brought up her concern about Isaac. Now’s not the time. Especially because he gets distracted by the irony of what she’s actually suggesting. He’s so proud. “Wait, wait. You’re saying I should take the sick werewolf to the vet…? Dude, you’re not going to believe what she just—”

Derek’s glowering at him and Stiles’ grin vanishes with the cold clarity of pain those sharp eyes promise.

“Er, anyway, call me, be careful,” he mumbles to Allison.

“Hang in there, Derek. You’re going to be okay,” she says determinedly and ends the call.

 

* * *

 

“You are gonna get me _so_ fired,” Isaac mutters as he opens the backdoor of the clinic for them. “Oh, wow… he looks terrible.”

Stiles stumbles inside, sweat rapidly soaking through his clothes under the utter fucking furnace of Derek’s body that’s half draped across his shoulders. Werewolves have naturally higher body temperature, yes, but right now, as his body scrambles to heal and unsuccessfully fight off the wolfsbane infection, he’s radiating heat like the goddamn sun.

“You said your boss left. All right, all _right_ ,” Stiles grumbles at Derek, shrugging off his crushing weight and watching him half collapse against a shiny metal examination table before turning back to Isaac who’s grimacing at Derek. “And that you have closing duty tonight.”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t stay here much longer. I have to get home or dad will… Why is he taking his shirt off? Is that a _bullet wound_?” Isaac questions, eyes widening and paling.

And yep, that is a shirtless Derek Hale. Good lord. Look at all of those muscles.

Stiles is attracted to males as well as females, never had a big gay crisis, just always knew and never really worried about it. Right now though, he hates it. Wishes he was straight as a freaking pole, because at least then he wouldn’t be aware of the fact that Derek’s the most attractive person on the planet and could continue to barely tolerate him in peace.

 _Nope, Lydia, Lydia, fifteen year plan, Lydia,_ he reminds himself as his mouth goes dry eyeing the contours of muscle over Derek’s gloriously hairy chest and smooth stomach and – _holy fuck_ – massive arms. One arm is now half covered in disgusting red veins crawling under his skin from the bullet wound like a gruesome system of roots. _And, oh yeah, the dude is_ dying, _you absolute sicko!_ Stiles chides, and thinks he should really be feeling more shame than he is.

“Dude, what’s the plan here?” Stiles asks Derek, walking around to the opposite side of the examination table. “Because _that_ is looking… you know what, ‘bad’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it, and Allison’s not responding,” he glances down at his phone.

“If the infection spreads to my heart,” he explains, stumbling around the room and rummaging through drawers. “I’ll die.”

Stiles observes the ropey stretch of infection enveloping the swell of Derek’s bicep and feels his stomach twist uncomfortably. Not much time left then. A couple hours, maybe less, before it reaches over his shoulder and chest to stop his heart.

Fuck.

“What are you looking for?” Isaac questions, approaching cautiously.

Stupidly, Stiles realises they haven’t even been introduced. Isaac’s heard a lot about Derek from him and Allison – mostly complaints from Stiles – but has never accompanied them on training slash study afternoons at the Hale house.

“This,” Derek says, straightening with a bone-saw in his hand, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he looks at Stiles. “You’re going to cut my arm off.”

Stiles’ jaw falls open as a million images of blood and gore and amputations swim through his mind. Because sometimes his imagination is _way_ too vivid. And an asshole. The room falls into silent disbelief, but Derek marches forward resolutely, dropping the bone-saw onto the table and strapping a tourniquet around his arm above the lines of infection.

“I’m… _what?_ ” Stiles shouts incredulously. “No, no, no, absolutely not. Are you _kidding_ me? This is your ‘last resort’? Why don’t you ask Isaac to do it? He’s a freaking veterinary assistant.”

Isaac looks horrified and Stiles feels marginally guilty but it’s quickly overwhelmed by the panic and nausea.

“What? No, I can’t—”

“ _No_ ,” Derek growls warningly, eyes flashing blue in Isaac’s direction. He’s breathing heavily, jaw clenched and shoulders hunched in, looking like a scared, wounded animal. “I don’t—know him. Don’t trust him.”

And. Okay. What? He trusts Stiles? That’s…

Stiles leans against the examination table for support as his legs feel weak, because he actually has to do this. He groans. “Dude, I— _God_ , I really can’t do this. With the flesh and the bone and not to mention all of the blood!”

“You faint at the sight of blood?”

“No, but I might at the sight of a _chopped-off arm!_ ”

“Surely we can wait a little longer for Allison,” Isaac says hopefully, sensibly, eyes wide and panicked.

Derek shakes his head, irritation deepening his scowl. “If I wait any longer it’ll be at my shoulder and too high to cut the infection out.” He glances up at Stiles. “You’re going to do this or I’m going to cut your head off.”

Stiles scoffs, watching Derek’s pale, swaying form pointedly. “I really don’t think you’re in any condition to threaten me when you’re—”

Suddenly Stiles is jerked forward, almost off his feet, and has a face full of angry werewolf. This close Derek seems so much bigger and scarier – if possible – his breath searing hot against Stiles’ throat and something desperate burns in the unnatural blue glow of his eyes. Conceptually, Stiles has been aware that Derek’s dying since he defensively muttered the words in the school parking lot, but the full force of the fact that Derek’s simply going to cease to exist hits him in that moment. And Stiles hates it, feels dizzy with the fury it stirs in him, crackling over his skin.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles relents, pulling back against his the unbelievably strong grip on his shirt. Derek bends forward, a gurgling sob sounding from deep in his throat before he heaves slimy black liquid onto the floor. “Oh my _God_ , what is _that?_ ”

As soon as he finishes, Derek straightens somewhat and holds his arm out on the table. “Do it, do it now,” he grunts commandingly.

“ _Oh_ my God, oh _my_ God,” Stiles repeats continuously, raising the bone-saw to Derek’s arm. Distantly he hears Isaac say the same, backing away with a hand covering his mouth and slowly turning away. Stiles’ finger hovers over the button as he builds the courage and settles his palm on Derek’s shoulder.

_I have to do this. He can’t die. No one else can die. I don’t want—_

“What on earth is going on in here?” A voice cuts through the deafening thrum of Stiles’ heart.

Stiles drops the bone-saw and throws his hands into the air innocently. “It’s not what it looks like!”

“Deaton…” Derek says, recognition and suspicion crossing his features. “Why are you here?”

Standing at the door is Dr. Deaton, looking remarkably calm and worryingly curious considering what he’s just walked in on. Stiles has only met the man, Isaac’s boss, once when dropping Isaac off after school one day, but he’d creeped Stiles out then and he’s doing so now. And Derek knows him?

Deaton’s lip quirks. “I do recall purchasing this establishment ten years ago.”

“Dr. Deaton, I’m so sorry, I—” Isaac’s apology is waved away as Deaton enters the room, eyeing Derek’s arm significantly. Derek seems to shy away, drawing his arm against his chest protectively.

“Aconitum noveboracense,” Deaton murmurs, and Stiles recognises the Latin word for wolfsbane from his research. Deaton’s dark gaze flickers up to meet Derek’s and his expression softens. “You needn’t worry, Derek. I took a vow to protect the Hale pack and that holds even in the wake of the misfortune that has befallen your family. Will you allow me to assist you?”

Derek eyes him, tense and uncertain, before relaxing slightly and nodding an affirmation. Deaton smiles genuinely before leaving.

“Wait, what? What vow?” Stiles questions, glancing between Isaac – who shrugs, looking as confused as Stiles feels – and Derek. “How do you know Deaton?”

Derek slumps heavily against the table and Stiles instinctively reaches out to steady him. Stiles’ heart rate is evening out, calmer knowing that Derek seems less distressed, trusting in Deaton in a way Stiles has never seen him trust anyone. Possibly because he’s weak and it’s his only option at this point. Because, honestly, amputation is the _worst_ idea.

He’s quickly learning that Derek mostly has the worst ideas. He really shouldn’t be allowed to have them at all.

“Deaton, he was—” his voice rasps, tendrils of the infection reaching beyond the tourniquet now. “He was my pack’s Emissary.”

Emissary. Fairly self-explanatory by human definition, a diplomatic representative, but does it hold the same meaning by supernatural definition? He hasn’t come across it in his research. Curiosity and questions immediately swarm his mind and threaten at the back of his throat when Deaton returns. Derek really isn’t in any condition to be answering; not that he would even if he were fighting fit. Trying to get answers out of Derek is like trying to get blood out of a rock.

Deaton places a small vial on the table. “Do you remember what to do with it?”

Derek nods tersely, glaring down at the vial but not moving to take it. “You’re sure it’s the northern blue monkshood?”

“The most common wolfsbane used by Argent hunters, the most common to obtain and modify for filling bullets,” he lists knowledgeably, assuredly. “You’ve suffered too much betrayal for me to ask you to trust me, Derek. The decision is yours.”

Breath steaming up the cool metal top of the examination table where he’s leaning on his elbows, pallid and weak and dying, Derek reaches for the vial. He slowly unscrews the lid and his sharp eyes flicker up to Stiles searchingly. Stiles feels tense, he licks his lips and bites into the bottom one, nodding his head without really knowing why, and Derek continues more confidently.

Feeling eyes on him, Stiles glances up to see Deaton watching him intently before watching Derek pour the desiccated substance out and lighting it on fire with a lighter, wispy blue smoke curling into the air. Once the smoke has faded, Derek scrapes the ashes into his hand, hesitating to take a steeling breath, and pushes the ashes into his wound.

Stiles swears he’s never been this still before, this quiet. It’s uncomfortable.

Derek hisses in pain and Stiles winces sympathetically.

“Is that it?”

Derek cries out in pain and falls back onto the ground, sufficiently answering Stiles’ question. He’s about to go to Derek’s side when a strong hand at his elbow stops him.

“He’ll be okay, his system just needs to fight back the infection,” Deaton explains, his cool gaze remaining on Derek who is now writhing and screaming and growling. Dogs start barking and rattling their cages, understandably distressed by the pained, howling werewolf. Muscles flexing and taut under his skin, Derek arches off the ground and Stiles can actually see the gruesome lines of infection clearing from his arm and the bullet wound completely disappearing.

Derek stills and relaxes, panting heavily, and Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He jolts with surprise as his phone buzzes in his pocket. And of course Allison is calling now, that girl has the best dramatic timing.

“I couldn’t—”

“Derek’s fine, I think,” Stiles assures quickly. “Well, he _looks_ fine. Not—Not _fine_ fine, just… you know, better?” He cringes, Allison doesn’t notice, though he’s sure everyone in the room is politely ignoring the metaphorical foot he has crammed down his throat.

“Oh thank _God_! Derek?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, pushing himself off the ground to stand.

“Are you okay?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Sure, except for the agonising pain.”

“See, back to being his snarky, sarcastic self, complete with the signature eye roll,” Stiles reports, ignoring Derek’s subsequent glower. “How about you? Are you okay? Is your family suspicious of anything?”

“No, I think I’m all good. Kate mostly just seems happy to see me, and dad’s… distracted. They both are. Probably with the Alpha. So, crisis averted? Are you going to tell me what happened?” Allison questions curiously. “Did you somehow magic him better?”

“Uh.” Stiles glances from Deaton, who looks as innocuous as ever, to Derek, who’s now frowning at him contemplatively. “Yep. Crisis averted. I’ll fill you in about the details tomorrow. Keep your head down for tonight. Don’t want to draw anymore unwanted attention.”

“Yes, Yoda,” Allison laughs. “See you tomorrow.”

With a farewell Stiles hangs up and glances about the room. Isaac’s fidgeting, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the linoleum, pale and unnerved but otherwise okay. Deaton’s busying himself by tidying, or possibly just making himself look busy so he doesn’t have to answer questions, of which Stiles has a million and five but no energy to dive into it right now. And Derek’s gingerly pulling his shirt back on, bye-bye muscles, though the tight black Henley does a disturbingly good job of highlighting said muscles.

Stiles is done. He’s just so done with this day. His head is swimming with information and questions and the sickening roller-coaster of emotions he’s been on for the last few hours. He just needs to sleep. And think. And shower – hopefully not having a completely inappropriate jerk off session. And do his homework.

Ugh.

“So, this was fun. Let’s never do it again,” Stiles announces to the room and points an accusing finger at Derek. “No more getting shot, buddy. Wait… where are you going to go? You can’t go back to the Hale house, you’re not exactly in fighting form.”

Derek’s scowls in offense but doesn’t argue the point, because as much as it probably hurts his wolfy pride not to be able to protect himself in his own house – den? – Stiles is right. Stiles is always right. Why don’t more people listen to Stiles?

“You can stay here,” Deaton offers. “I have a cot set up in the back for when I need to stay behind with a particularly sick or injured animal.”

Derek scrutinises Deaton, eyes narrowing warily. “Why are you helping me?”

“It’s what Talia would have wanted.”

The words are heavy and meaningful, and although Stiles doesn’t have firsthand knowledge of the situation the familiar hurt and grief that washes over Derek’s face tell him everything he needs to know. Family. Loss. Pain.

Stiles’ chest twists and constricts at the thought of Derek’s loss. It sets off all his defence mechanisms. Run and hide and ignore.

“Awesome. Problem solved. Isaac, you need a lift?” Stiles questions quickly.

“Uh. Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Great. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Stiles turns on his heel without even checking to see if Isaac is following and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Heart hammering against his ribcage and panting so heavily his lungs are hurting, Stiles doubles over in an attempt to catch his breath. His muscles burn from running. So much running. All the running. Why is running a thing? Sprinting is good, just a quick dash and it’s all over, like tearing off a Band-Aid. But running is like non-stop torture.

“I don’t think,” Stiles wheezes, gulping up a greedy breath. “I don’t think I can do anymore, dude.”

“Just a few more plays,” Isaac says, though he sounds just as exhausted as Stiles.

“Why are you pushing this so hard, man? It’s not like we’re ever going to make it off the bench, we may as well resign ourselves to our mundane athletic existences being awarded with participation certificates.”

“Maybe I’m just sick of being weak,” Isaac murmurs under his breath. Stiles barely makes out the words but the quiet sadness in his voice is difficult to miss. Straightening, he regards Isaac and notes the slump of his shoulders and downcast gaze.

Stiles frowns. “What?”

Isaac shakes his head and drapes his lacrosse stick over his shoulder before walking away. “Nothing. It’s getting dark, we should probably get going anyway.”

Heaving a sigh, Stiles hurries after him. Isaac has always been guarded, his mind to mouth filter an actual properly functioning machine. He’s expressive so Stiles probably observes a lot more than Isaac would like, but he knows not to push Isaac and it would be awfully hypocritical given how Stiles hides his personal and emotional dilemmas.

He learned his lesson last winter break, he pushed too hard and Isaac shut down for months, completely ignoring him. It was fucking annoying, there’s nothing more frustrating than being locked out without knowing what you’ve done wrong, but Stiles forgave him, recognising that something was seriously wrong. Something has changed in Isaac and even though things are fine between them now, Isaac has never really been the same since.

And it’s been getting worse recently. Isaac’s been working himself ragged. Distracted in class and rarely engaging in conversations with their friends. With the reminder from Allison’s concern, Stiles has been checking in with him regularly but Isaac simply dismisses it with placations.

Stiles keeps up his usual babble about lacrosse on their way back to the locker room. He misses Isaac’s easy banter sometimes, the sarcastic and wry remarks, but Stiles is a good at talking and can keep a one-sided conversation going like a freaking champion.

Until Isaac asks, “You think Jackson would help train us if we asked?”

Stiles scoffs, pulling on a clean t-shirt and adjusting the material where it sticks to his hastily dried skin. “Jackson? Jackson Douchemore? Nah. Even though I’m friends with Scott, who’s friends with Danny, who’s friends with Jackson, there is no way he’d help us. Nor do I particularly want to spend more time than is absolutely necessary around him.”

“It’s a team sport, he’s the captain, shouldn’t he want his team to do the best they can?” Isaac says, shoving his lacrosse padding in his bag.

“I’ve known Jackson since preschool and that guy cares about no one but himself.”

“You make him sound like the freaking devil. He’s not that bad. Lydia’s smart, she wouldn’t be with him if he were a complete asshole.”

Slipping into his jacket and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Stiles grimaces. “Okay, yeah, he’s not a _complete_ asshole,” he concedes. “Jackson just doesn’t know how to exist outside his own problems and is defensive because of his problems and comes off as more of an asshole than he probably actually is. But he’s still a jerk. And Lydia has bad taste, has liked the jerks since preschool.”

“Maybe that’s why you should give up on her, why she’ll never like you.”

“Aww, you adorable little puppy,” Stiles teases, grinning and bumping their shoulders together as they leave the locker room and make their way down the corridor. “But I’m never giving up on Lydia. Fifteen year plan.”

Isaac snorts. “Right, fifteen year plan. You haven’t seemed overly interested in pursuing the fifteen year plan lately.”

Stiles groans and scrubs his hand over his still damp buzz cut. “Yeah, freaking werewolf crap, man. The fifteen year plan just has to be put on hold until all this craziness dies down. I mean, last week the Alpha killed that guy at the video store while Jackson and Lydia were right there. No point in a fifteen year plan if there’s a crazy werewolf going around murdering people and almost killing Lydia.”

“That’s the second death, right? After the bus driver?”

“Yeah.”

“Derek still doesn’t know who the Alpha is?”

“Nope. Lotta good he is. You’d think the Big Bad Werewolf would be better at this shit. Being all dark and mysterious and brooding as he is I would’ve figured he’d be supernatural crime fighting expert.”

Isaac frowns. “Why? Does this kinda stuff happen a lot?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe Beacon Hills is just a special kinda crazy.”

It’s dark outside by the time they push through the doors leading to the parking lot, giving the scowling janitor a hearty farewell. They descend the stairs to get to the Jeep, but when Stiles glances up he notices his Jeep isn’t the only car in the parking lot, like it should be. Camouflaged in the darkness is a sexy black Camaro that can only belong to one person.

“Of fucking course you’re here,” Stiles mutters, walking around the Jeep to see Derek leaning against his car like a freaking GQ model, all bad-boy austere and criminally attractive in his leather jacket, worn black jeans and boots.

“I was about to say the same thing,” Derek says, folding his arms and tilting his head. “How is it you manage to always find yourself in the middle of all the trouble wherever you go, Stiles?”

Stiles glances about anxiously. “What trouble? Where?”

“We tracked the Alpha here.”

“We?” Isaac asks and, right on cue, Allison rounds the Jeep.

“Guys, you can’t be here, you need to leave,” she insists, eyes wide and worried. She’s dressed far more appropriately for Alpha tracking, in yoga pants, sweatshirt and sneakers, with her curly hair up in a ponytail. Stiles wants to gush about her Buffy-esque practicality but now probably isn’t the best time.

“The Alpha’s here and I don’t want to waste my energy trying to protect the injury prone,” Derek says but Stiles ignores the dig.

“Oh, wow, look at you, big guy! Taking my advice and asking Ally for help,” Stiles gloats, grinning broadly at him. “I’m so proud.”

“I did _not_ do it because of what you said,” Derek denies vehemently. And, seriously dude? Liar, liar pants on fire. Wait, no, that’s probably inappropriate.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a sourwolf!”

Derek growls, low and irritable, scowling menacingly, complete with nostril flare and downturned mouth. God, even if Stiles didn’t know Derek could simply snap him in half with that werewolf brawn – on top of all the seemingly unnecessary human brawn – he’d still be shit scared of Derek. Dude is two hundred percent intimidation. Makes Stiles wonder how much of it is just for show.

Stiles glances between the two werewolves and his smile fades as their words sink in. The Alpha is here, they’re probably going to fight it, two betas against an alpha who is faster, stronger and far more demonic looking. It sparks something protective in him.

“What’s the plan? How can I help?”

“Stiles,” Allison says, brown eyes pleading. “This is too dangerous.”

“That’s why I have to—”

“Did you miss the part where I said I wouldn’t waste my time and energy protecting weak little humans who’ll do nothing but get in the damn way,” Derek snarls, taking a threatening step forward. “You need to leave, Stiles. _Now_.”

Stiles bristles, he doesn’t want to leave Allison here with only Derek as back up. What if the Alpha hurts her? Or gets control over her? “I can _help_. Maybe not with the fighting, clawing, getting injured part, but I can be distracting and get-away driving.”

“We aren’t discussing this. You’re not useful. You’re a liability. Leave!”

“This really isn’t the time for—”

Allison’s complaint is drowned out by a thundering roar and Stiles lurches backwards, protectively taking Isaac with him, because suddenly the Alpha’s just there. A hideous, snarling figure of monstrous proportions ripped straight out of Stiles’ nightmares. It lifts Derek off the ground and rips into his back with the sickening sound of rending flesh.

Stiles reacts on pure instinct and sprints for the school as Derek’s flung across the parking lot like a ragdoll. He can hear Isaac running with him, having tugged and yelled at him to follow, but Allison was too far away for him to grab. When they reach the door Stiles expects to find Allison defending Derek or trying to fight the Alpha, instead she’s right beside them, helping slam the door closed.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Isaac shouts, blue eyes wide with panic.

“The Alpha,” Stiles says between panting breaths. “Welcome to my hell. Why are you here?” He turns to Allison. “Not that I’m complaining, I prefer you here and safe, but I figured you’d be all rawr, attacker wolf.”

“Derek told me to protect you. Kind of,” Allison says, glancing between them determinedly.

Stiles squints at her. “What? How? When did he have time to do that? Is he…?”

She cocks her head to listen. “He’s alive, unconscious and healing but alive. He just kind of told me to go and I did, knowing what he wanted.”

“Well, that’s creepy but useful,” he allows, glancing out the small square window in the door and seeing nothing. “Why would the Alpha not kill Derek? I mean, he obviously isn’t trying to or you’d be more unsettled. Which means it probably sees Derek as an obstacle rather than a threat, which makes sense because it’s more powerful than Derek. Obviously. Maybe the Alpha simply has more important things to focus on. Question is: what?”

“Uh,” Allison says, frowning and glancing at Isaac for help. “Is he talking to me and am I supposed to answer?”

Isaac shakes his head. “Generally not. I find it safer sometimes to just let him monologue.”

“Good to know.”

Stiles pays little attention to them, his mind working in overdrive with that rush of adrenaline in this extremely worrying situation. While the Alpha is gone now, it certainly wants something here, at the school or them in general, either way, it’s far more intelligent than a mindless beast and Stiles refuses to be outwitted by the murderous fucker by underestimating him. Her? Them? Whatever, it’s not getting the better of him.

“We’re too exposed here,” Allison notes, voice edgy.

Stiles glances around the wide open corridor and agrees. “We should find an office or janitors closet or—just something that’s easier to defend.”

“Stay close,” Allison says when Isaac lags behind.

With a plan forming, Stiles marches down the corridor, rolling up the sleeves of his plaid shirt because this is serious business. They pass numerous classrooms he’s familiar with, but the indefensible walls of windows make those rooms an absolute death-trap. He keeps going until he finds a door that reads ‘Staff Only’ and he’s fairly certain it’s a supply room or something.

Fortunately the door is unlocked. Stiles frowns. Or maybe not fortunately… Is the janitor still here? Jesus. He hopes not, he hopes the guy merely forgot to lock this door and is already on his way home. Ugh. Nothing he can do about it now.

“Guys, inside,” Stiles says, nodding his head at the darkened room. Creepy, yes, but safer than out here.

Allison enters the small space easily, her supernaturally enhanced vision likely making it as easy to see in there as if it were a bright day. Isaac hesitates and freezes, staring into the darkness with wide, terrified eyes.

“Isaac?” Stiles prompts. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. He pales, breath shortening and trembling with rapidly intensifying panic. Stiles glances around nervously, feeling as though the Alpha might show at any moment, the threat of it breathing hotly down the back of his neck. “Dude, we don’t have time for—”

“No!”

Isaac recoils from Stiles’ touch like he’s been burnt, blue eyes wide and accusing, and his voice taut with unadulterated terror.

“What’s wrong?”

“You can’t make me go in there. Please—please don’t make me go in there,” Isaac pleads frantically, glancing between him and the door, backing away until he hits a row of lockers and cowering against them, trying to make himself as small as possible. “Stiles, _please_.”

“Isaac,” Allison says softly, approaching him carefully, like he’s a startled animal. “Isaac, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t—I just can’t go in there. I can’t. It’s not…” he lets out a frustrated sob and Stiles has absolutely no idea what to do. He can barely deal with his own fear in dire situations like this, but this is… This is something entirely different. More than unwittingly stumbling upon monsters in the dark. This is ingrained, visceral fear.

Stiles doesn’t even want to move; he’s worried for Isaac but he’s certainly the last person you’d want dealing with delicate situations. Yay, self-awareness. And thank fuck for Allison.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Isaac,” she says soothingly, slowing as she nears him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “I’m not going to let anything—”

Her dark eyes narrow in concentration as she tilts her head suddenly, listening. She looks so much like an animal when she does that. It’s freaky. And awesome.

Fuck sakes. What now?

“Alpha?” Stiles questions, gaze darting warily.

Allison shakes her head. “No, Lydia. And Jackson and Scott,” she finishes, meeting Stiles’ gaze with her brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are they here?”

Stiles sighs and drags a trembling hand over his head. “That’s a good freaking question. Shit. Where are they?”

“East entrance,” Allison says and glances back to Isaac. He’s calmed somewhat, leaning into Allison’s touch at his shoulder like it’s grounding him and his breathing is evening out. “Will you be okay, Isaac?”

“I—yeah. I’m—I’m okay,” he says unconvincingly, letting out a shaky breath and meeting Stiles’ gaze nervously. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no, dude, don’t worry about it. Claustrophobia is a legitimate and completely understandable thing,” Stiles reassures with a small smile, though this felt like more than that. Not that he’s an expert or anything; if they get out of this alive he’ll certainly be doing expert levels of research on claustrophobia. “C’mon, let’s go face down Lydia. Infinitely more scary.”

The slight teasing gets a characteristic smirk slash eye roll combo out of Isaac, so Stiles counts it as a win. A little bit of normalcy always made him feel better when he was having a panic attack, there’s only so much coddling you can take before it starts to make everything feel worse.

Allison squeezes Isaac’s arm and offers him a supportive, dimpled smile before leading the way and Isaac remains close between them as they travel through the dark corridors of the school. Horror films and games do this justice, because schools at night are terrifying. Or perhaps Stiles has just been conditioned to believe it’s terrifying. Either way, every single muscle is stiff with fear; some fears reasonable, like the Alpha, some less so, like ghosts. Although, to be fair, they could still totally be a thing. God, he hopes they’re not a thing. One supernatural crisis at a time, please.

He’d really hoped Allison had been hearing things, but no; there, traipsing down the corridor in towering heels, is Lydia. She fearlessly leads a squabbling Jackson and Scott further into the school.

“There you are,” Lydia huffs impatiently when they approach.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stiles hisses at them irritably, because he really doesn’t need _more_ people to worry about.

Scott looks suitably sheepish while Jackson pulls his trademark bitch-face – that he patented specifically for Stiles – and Lydia arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow balefully. And, okay, yep, this is how he dies. What survival instinct? Perhaps Lydia’s a little scared herself, considering she’s kicked the intimidation factor up about ten notches.

“Allison sent me a message,” Lydia explains, voice icy with contempt and Stiles flinches at the sound of it. “Asked to be picked up at school.”

“No, I didn’t,” Allison says slowly, like Lydia’s crazy, because they’re close friends and Lydia definitely wouldn’t eviscerate Allison with her perfectly manicured fingernails – oh, look, blood red this week, how fitting – like she would Stiles.

Lydia’s eyes go wide challengingly. “Yes, you did.”

She holds out her phone and Stiles sidles up – hiding behind Allison shamelessly, his self-preservation kicking in – to observe the message on the screen.

 **[06:49pm] Unknown Number**  
_hey Lydia, it’s Allison, my phone died and janitor let me borrow his phone, im kinda stranded at school, can you please come pick me up?_

“I did _not_ send that,” Allison declares emphatically.

“Then who the hell did?” Jackson questions, pissed off at being jerked around. Which is completely the wrong reaction. The right reaction is the utter dread sinking through Stiles’ stomach like lead as puzzle pieces click together in his brain.

“Stiles?” Allison turns to him, likely smelling the sharp upward ascent of his already high stress levels.

“It lured us all here. It wants us here,” he mumbles, gaze flickering back and forth across the floor as he thinks. “Out there—after Derek—it could have easily attacked us, had more than enough time, but it didn’t. The Alpha has us right where he wants us.”

“Oh great, a regular Friday Night Crazy Stilinski Special,” Jackson complains. A spark of annoyance flares through Stiles at the words, but he has bigger problems.

“Do everyone a favour and shut your pretty little mouth, Jackson!” Isaac snarls with uncharacteristic ferocity.

“Why does it want us here?” Allison asks coolly, ignoring the others and focusing on Stiles like they’re having one of their usual brainstorming sessions. “If not to kill us…?”

He has theories, multiple theories, theories which lead to more questions than answers. Theories that will probably cause more panic and harm than good right now. Especially with a group of people only half of which know nothing about what’s going on.

“Er, what was that?” Scott says, voice wavering nervously as he glances up at the ceiling that is, in fact, thumping ominously.

Crap.

“Shit,” Allison voices his trepidation. Allison swearing, not a good sign. “We need to—!”

The grating, crunching, screeching of metal and wood being broken and bent resonate deafeningly as a hole is viciously torn through the ceiling and the Alpha comes crashing down not fifteen feet from them. Unaccountable screams ring out from the group, barely heard over the Alpha’s growling, but Stiles’ already high-tailing it. It’s probably sad that he’s getting so used to running for his life that his reaction time is this good.

He calls after his friends and, worrying for the uninformed humans, glances over his shoulder as he sprints down the corridor. Isaac’s right on his heels – he’s always been a good runner – and Scott just behind him, Jackson dragging a struggling Lydia – with short legs and practically running on stilts in those heels, Stiles can’t blame her – while Allison trails protectively behind them.

They’re running out of corridor, so Stiles dives for an unlocked classroom and they follow easily. Allison closes the door behind them and stands against it, focusing her senses and peeking through the window in the door.

“It’s gone,” she reports matter-of-factly.

Allison is scary calm, the kind that reminds him of Derek, but also possibly Chris. She is an Argent, a warrior; they would need all that cool calculated composure when hunting beings with supernatural advantages. So maybe it’s a hereditary crisis coping mechanism. Either way, it’s freaking useful and gives Stiles time to worry about how the fuck they’re going to get out of this. Which she also seems to naturally rely on him for and he’ll be blatantly boasting about later, when they’re in less danger of horrible, bloody death.

“Oh my God, why are we being chased by a monster?” Scott frets, panting erratically. “What even was that thing?”

“Is this some kind of fucking prank, Stilinski?” Jackson questions, his pale eyes wide with a combination of fear and fury. “Because it’s not fucking funny. Okay? Just stop. You’re not funny!”

“Okay, that’s it, everyone shut the hell up,” Lydia demands powerfully, and everyone promptly complies. “You need to tell me what the hell is going on right this second, because I’m not dressed for this horror movie bullshit and we deserve to know what we’ve been dragged into.”

Stiles stops pacing and heaves an all-suffering sigh, letting his arms fall to his sides. He glances over at Allison questioningly, and she looks between each of them before nodding a silent approval to Stiles.

“The thing that’s been going around killing people around Beacon Hills is a werewolf, the Alpha werewolf. It lured us here and is probably trapping us.”

The subsequent silence is expected, a range of disbelief and annoyance contorting their features. Stiles waits patiently. Jackson looks like he wants to punch someone, probably Stiles, and Lydia’s eyes are narrowed sceptically. Scott looks on the verge of a breakdown and Stiles thinks that’s the most appropriate reaction. Bless Scott and his normalcy.

“Stilinski!” Jackson barks, doing a fairly good impression of Coach, actually. “There is no such fucking thing as werewolves!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Allison,” he prompts.

Turning from her guard post by the door, Allison beta shifts on command, flashing a powerful jaw of dangerous teeth and nose crinkling into a snarl as her eyes glow amber. Jackson pales and flinches away while Scott scurries backwards with a frightened yelp. Lydia holds her ground rather bravely, even if her expression betrays her distress, it’s a thoughtful kind of distress though, analysing and processing. Allison simply shifts back and returns to her post watching the door.

Scott’s breaths are loud and panicked, but Stiles doesn’t have time to worry about it right now, because if any of them are going to make it out of here alive he really needs to come up with a plan better than making a balls-to-the-wall run for their cars that will likely result in death or serious injury. Thankfully, Isaac goes to Scott while Stiles paces and contemplates tactics. Lydia would actually be really helpful right now if she weren’t still staring at Allison and processing the newfound supernatural order of the world. Completely understandable.

“Werewolves…” Jackson breathes, touching the back of his neck.

“Yep,” Stiles says, only partially listening.

“The video store,” Lydia murmurs.

“Mmhm.”

Scott’s mumbling a litany of PG friendly curses and Isaac is comforting him with placating words. It doesn’t seem to be helping though, Scott’s getting worse and worse, and through his haze of helpless strategising Stiles hears the wheezing.

“Stiles, shit. Stiles!” Isaac shouts worriedly. “I don’t think he can breathe.”

Stiles stares down at Scott, face red and sweaty as he gasps for air through constricting airways, and his eyes widen with dawning comprehension. “ _Fuck_ , he’s having an asthma attack,” Stiles says, at Scott’s side in an instant. “Scotty, dude, where’s your inhaler?”

“I don’t have... It’s in my bag… in Jackson’s car,” Scott says between painful sounding breaths and coughing fits.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. This _cannot_ be happening. So much for blessing Scott and his normalcy. No, that’s not fair, it’s not his fault. But. Fuck.

“I’ll go—”

“No,” Stiles interrupts Allison’s suggestion immediately, knowing she was going to suggest it even before she spoke. “Even if the Alpha wants you in its pack, it won’t be afraid to hurt you and it certainly won’t allow you to simply walk out.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jackson, surprisingly, is the one to argue. Though, perhaps not surprising, him and Danny have experienced some of Scott’s asthma attacks and know how bad they can get. “Stilinski, he needs his fucking inhaler!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Stiles shouts aggressively. “I’ve been his friend since we were kids and I know he needs his fucking inhaler! But there is a _reason_ you don’t send someone swimming into a rip current to save another person stuck in it.”

“Neither of you are helping,” Isaac comments.

“The office,” Lydia says, her voice demanding their attention. “School have a spare asthma inhaler in their primary medical kit, which is in the office down the corridor.”

Stiles heaves a sigh of relief. Bless Lydia and her freakishly brilliant computer brain.

“I’m going,” Allison asserts, moving toward the door.

“Not alone, you’re not,” Jackson says, following after her. “I’m coming with you.”

Allison shakes her head adamantly. “I’m the only one who even stands a chance against the Alpha.”

“Look, at the video store, I was there after it killed that guy. I was trapped under the shelves and the freaking thing stopped, looming right over me, touched the back of my neck and just left. It doesn’t give a shit about me, so I’m going with you.”

Stiles glances up, frowning at him. “The back of your neck?”

“That creepy guy that was with you guys at school the other week—”

“Derek?”

Jackson shrugs. “He cut the back of my neck. Stilinski, we don’t have time for your endless nosiness. Let’s go,” he says to Allison.

She sighs but doesn’t argue. “Stay close.”

They disappear out the door that Lydia closes and guards, and Stiles turns his attention back to Scott, who is much the same, dragging in rattling breaths. With Isaac’s help, Stiles props Scott up comfortably against the wall and calls 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator answers.

“Yes, hello, I’m at Beacon Hills High School and my friend’s having an asthma attack, I need you to send—”

“Sorry kid,” the operator interrupts indifferently. “We’ve been warned about prank calls coming in from the high school tonight.”

“Dude, this isn’t—!” The call disconnects and Stiles pulls it away from his ear, gaping at it. “Are you fucking kidding me? Son of a bitch!”

Isaac frowns. “What happened?”

“They hung up on me! Said that they’d received a tip that they’d be getting prank calls from—” Stiles glances up at Lydia where she’s watching vigilantly out the small window in the door and recalls the fake message she’d been sent. “Fuck,” he growls at the realisation, gripping his phone too tight. “The Alpha gave the cops a heads up about prank calls from the school. They’ll still send a patrol by, but they’ll only drive past the school.”

“So what do we do now?”

Stiles sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face and concentrating on Scott’s erratic breathing. “Alright, Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, settling one hand gently on his shoulder and the other on his chest. “I need to you focus on your breathing for me. That’s all you have to worry about, okay, bud?”

Scott nods and closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling as deeply as possible where Stiles directs. There’s a crash from the corridor, but Stiles ignores it and keeps talking Scott through his breathing. Next thing Stiles knows Isaac’s holding an inhaler to him and he can hear Allison and Jackson’s panting breaths from behind him, Lydia murmuring quietly to them.

Holding up the inhaler, Scott breathes in two puffs. It’s not an instant fix but it’ll work quickly, especially after Stiles’ help soothing his panic. Leaving Isaac with Scott, Stiles turns to the others, finding Jackson doubled over, Lydia’s hand settled on his back soothingly and Allison calmly guarding the door once more.

“What does that motherfucker want?” Jackson questions irritably, pale eyes flashing up to Stiles.

“What happened?”

“What the hell do you think, Stilinski? It attacked us!”

Allison glances back, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think it wants to hurt us, I think Stiles’ right, if it wanted to it could. It’s more like it corralled us. When we saw it we ran the wrong way but it cut us off and sent us back here.”

“The Alpha has no control over you?” Stiles asks, fingers tapping against his thigh rhythmically and chewing at his lip.

“It tried to call to me,” Allison confirms, a flare of pride and defiance brightening her eyes and curling her mouth. Stiles feels it too. “I felt nothing; no connection, no pull.”

Derek had been uncertain, wary and worried without having any tangible proof that the connection has been broken. He knows wolves, knows the draw of power an alpha can exude, especially to a bitten beta. But Stiles knew; wasn’t worried and isn’t surprised.

Allison’s strong-willed and independent, beyond that which can be discerned on the surface. She’s a natural werewolf, confident on her own two feet and able to make her own decisions but able to work alongside and with the help of others when needed. Even if Derek doesn’t say as much, Stiles can tell he’s impressed with Allison’s ability to adapt to her new wolfy lifestyle.

“Perhaps if we knew what this Alpha wanted, we could come up with a plan to get the hell out of here,” Lydia says, pointedly and icily, in that completely indirect way she usually addresses Stiles.

“It wants a pack,” Stiles speculates aloud for the first time, sick of holding it in and being the only one to understand. Not that he thinks they’ll be particularly helpful on the plan front, but they make good sounding boards. “An alpha without a pack, without betas, is weaker. Strong pack equals a strong alpha. Since Derek and Allison are resistant the Alpha wants to make more betas, people who are more likely to follow his lead. And what better place to start than with Allison’s friends, hoping that, eventually, they’ll be able to draw her back to the Alpha.”

“So we call the police,” Jackson suggests.

“No. I already tried, they refused to send anyone out because they got a tip about prank calls from the school.”

“Pull the fire alarm?” Isaac says slowly.

“I tried it when we first got trapped in here,” Allison says. “They’re not working.”

Lydia purses her lips. “Which means we simply have to fight it off and get away?”

“‘Simply,’ she says.” Stiles barks a mirthless laugh. “Did you miss the part where it’s a powerful alpha and not even Allison, a supernaturally gifted werewolf, stands a chance against it?”

Allison growls defensively and, wow, _too much time with Derek for you._

“Is it invulnerable to fire?”

Stiles can’t help it when his mind automatically goes to the Hale house, remembering all the werewolves that were burned alive in there. Trapped by mountain ash, Derek had informed them. Murdered by hunters. He cringes internally.

“No.”

“Good,” Lydia smiles, pink lips pulled into a tight, terrifying smile. “If Allison can break the lock on the chemical storeroom, there’s potassium chlorate, sulfuric acid, gasoline and sugar so I can—”

“You know how to make a self-igniting Molotov?” Stiles questions, eyes wide and disbelieving. Also, he hadn’t even noticed they’re in the chemistry classroom. A surprise since he freaking hates this room and all related Harris memories it invokes.

She raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. “Apparently so do you.”

Allison wanders over to the chemical storeroom and yanks on the handle casually, but with werewolf strength the frame groans and breaks, the door swinging open. Lydia hums an impressed sound and sets to work collecting her ingredients with Jackson helping.

Allison turns back to Stiles. “Will it be enough?”

Figuring in Lydia’s Molotov’s and where they are in the school, Stiles maps out a route and a strategy to get them to the Jeep. It’ll require haste, good timing and some blind, shithouse luck. But it’s doable. Survivable.

Stiles looks from Isaac and Scott, who’s now breathing steadily, to Lydia and Jackson, who are focused on the dangerous chemicals they’re working with, and back to Allison, who’s poised and determined and prepared to kick ass. Whatever brought them all together as friends, Stiles thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , together, they might actually be able to pull this off.

“Yeah. It’ll be enough.”

 

* * *

 

After surviving the horrifying night trapped at school with Stiles’ escape strategy going more or less to plan, he spent most of the weekend in a haze of research. Research on werewolf packs, claustrophobia, rogue alphas, emissaries and werewolf scratches. The others had been quiet all weekend after being sent home with strict orders not to reveal the werewolf secret under threat of Allison’s claws.

“I’m not going to hurt them!” she asserted.

“Fine, Derek’s claws,” he’d amended and their eyes widened with fear, lips sealed tightly, except for Lydia, who merely rolled her eyes.

They had escaped with the Alpha heavy on their heels, having tactically used all the Molotov’s outside to keep it at bay as they sprinted to the Jeep. It was a close call. Stiles thinks it should have been closer. He’s sceptical and suspicious of the whole incident. It just seemed too easy in the end.

Exhausted from a tiring Monday of school, with not a single spare period, Stiles trudges into his bedroom looking forward to just collapsing on his bed, face first, and having himself a lazy afternoon. Half-heartedly finishing some homework. Ordering pizza. Jerking off. Getting an early night of sleep. And it’s going to be amazing and werewolf free. Except maybe the jerking off, because apparently his lustful mind refuses to fantasise about anyone but—

“Derek? _Holyfuck_!” Stiles staggers back and flails his arms, dropping his heavy, book-filled backpack with a resounding thumb.

“Stiles?” Dad calls, booted footsteps loud as he climbs the creaking stairs. “You okay?”

Derek gives him a pointed glare from where he’s lurking in the shadowed corner of Stiles’ bedroom. So much for a werewolf free evening.

Stiles scurries for the door and leans against it, jamming his body between the door and the frame to keep his dad from spotting Derek. His dad has his usual ‘my son is being suspicious’ squinty frown set firmly in place as he approaches warily.

“What are you doing, Stiles?”

“Uh, you know, secret teenager stuff. Nothing you, uh, nothing you need to worry about there—Porn!” Stiles practically shouts in a panic as Dad edges forward to push the door open. Stiles winces but his dad pauses, so, mission accomplished. He supposes.

“Porn?”

“Mm, yep, I just loaded some up and it’s… _graphic._ So maybe you could do us both a favour and forget this ever happened?”

Dad purses his lips dubiously. “Graphic, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s basically an all-out orgy of… men. Yep. All men. Just, going at it, dicks _everywhere_. It’s… hot,” Stiles declares, though the way he stretches the word uncertainly isn’t very convincing. So he repeats for emphasis, nodding, “So hot.”

His dad’s grimacing, but it’s restricted by his ‘I’m a cop and nothing phases me’ expression. “You know that’s technically illegal, right?”

Stiles rolls his eyes with his whole head and wacks in into the door frame. Ow. “Oh, come on, Dad! I’m a few months away from eighteen. Also, I’ve been doing this for the last _four_ years.” Dad’s eyebrows raise. “I mean… two years?” he corrects carefully, not sure what Dad’s expecting here. Oh, look, he’s in his uniform. “Hey! Off to work, Pops?”

“Real smooth, Stiles. I’m on night shift so, whatever you’re doing or… whoever, please be safe?”

His face heats with the implication before he can even consider stopping it. Though, who is he kidding, he has no hope of controlling it anyway. He just knows his stupid pale skin is all splotchy and red and, really, he resents it. Because he isn’t interested in Derek in any way, shape or form. Except in his uncontrollable fantasies, he guesses. But they’re _uncontrollable._ By definition. So.

Wait, where’s he going with this argument?

“No, I’m not—there’s no one—I’m all by myself in here! Just me and the orgy porn. And my hand—” Stiles cringes. “Nope! Forget I said that.”

“Already forgotten. Goodbye, Stiles.”

“Bye, Dad. _You_ be safe! Out there!”

Dad disappears down the stairs with a put-upon sigh and Stiles exhales a deep, relieved sigh. Though he’s not certain relieved is the right feeling. This is made abundantly apparent when Stiles closes the door and is instantly and aggressively shoved up against it.

Stiles grunts at the impact and his breath hitches because Derek’s right in his face. All terrifying and close and scowling. And wow. He _so_ does not have the energy for this.

“What now?” Stiles complains, entirely aware of how whiny he sounds and giving zero fucks.

“You _left_ me at the school, unconscious and wounded,” Derek growls, and Stiles can actually feel the reverberating rumble against his chest with how Derek’s pressing him up against the door. And, shit, Derek’s so close. Too close. Dude seriously doesn’t understand the concept of personal space.

“That was days ago!” Stiles protests, trying to wriggle free but promptly shoved back and pinned with a large hand splayed on his chest. Crap, werewolves are _strong_. Who knew. “Ally said you were fine and we were kinda in a rush trying not to get mauled to death!”

“You told others about werewolves without informing me.”

Stiles squints at him angrily. “Oh, great, so this is going to be a point-out-all-the-things-Stiles-has-done-wrong session, then? I made an executive decision. They were trapped in there being attacked by the Alpha and needed to know. And I trust them not to tell. Well, okay, maybe not Jackson, but I think you left a pants-wetting impression on him and he doesn’t want to incur your heavily browed wrath.”

 _Wonderful, Stiles. Argue with the irate werewolf,_ he thinks. His self-preservation instinct has never been reliable. Especially when he’s tired and grouchy. Especially when he has a disturbingly gorgeous man, who randomly appeared in his bedroom, all up in his face and accusing him of shit. Seriously, how is it possible to be this attractive? With the piercing, multi-coloured eyes and the glass-cutting cheekbones and the dark stubble—

_Oh my God, why are you looking at his lips?_

“You trust them,” Derek says hesitantly, gaze searching Stiles’ face frenetically.

He sighs and confirms, “Yes.”

Derek eyes him thoughtfully and, slowly, the pressure comes off Stiles’ chest as Derek draws away. There’s a warning in Derek’s intense eyes as he takes a step back, a ‘you better be right about this, or else.’ Because Derek communicates entirely with his eyes and his eyebrows. Rather well actually. At least Stiles’ starting to understand a hell of a lot of it. Not that it’s difficult when the majority of his expressions are various types of threats.

With Derek’s ridiculously solid body no longer trapping him, Stiles goes to move around him. Derek lurches forward to psyche him out, and it absolutely works. Stiles jerks away and hurries over to his desk to put space between them.

“Oh, my God,” Stiles mutters, heart skittering. “How did you even get in here?”

“Window.”

Of course.

Stiles turns and freezes. Whatever irritated words he was about to snap get caught in his throat and his mouth hangs open idiotically. Because Derek Hale is shirtless. In his bedroom. Muscly and tan and shirtless.

He really has no idea how he didn’t notice before. One does not simply ignore Derek Hale’s shirtlessness. Oh, good, now he’s memeing. This is what he’s been reduced to.

“Why. Why—Why are you shirtless? Why are you _here_?”

“I’ve been staying at Deaton’s clinic, but got sick of hiding and went home—”

“You mean, to the burnt out shell of your former home?”

Derek scowls but otherwise ignores the comment. “When Kate showed up and attacked me.”

Stiles sighs, glancing up at the ceiling in hopes it’ll give provide some patience so he can deal with the sheer ridiculousness that is Derek Hale. No such luck.

“That answers _neither_ of my questions.”

“I was in the middle of working out and I have nowhere else to go.”

The words are spoken so quickly, like they’ve been punched out of him and he had to force himself to say them before he could even think about it. His answer makes sense considering the prominence of his muscles, swelling from the strain of exercise, and the mouth-watering sheen of sweat over his sun-kissed skin, slicking through his chest hair and the dark trail leading down to—

Without a word, Stiles turns on his heel and walks over to his dresser. Needing to stop looking at Derek and needing to put a damn shirt on the attractive asshole.

Shoving his baggiest t-shirt at Derek – that will still be tight over his massive frigging arms and chest – and walks over to his desk. Methodically, Stiles pulls his books out of his bag and starts up his laptop. Maybe if he’s boring enough, studying, Derek will leave.

“Allison said you think the Alpha wants to form a pack with her group of friends,” Derek says, punctuated by the quiet creak of Stiles’ bedsprings. So, not going anywhere anytime soon, then?

“Mm, maybe. The way he lured us all to the school and trapped us there… I don’t know. I thought that, but then it felt too easy to get away. I mean. If the Alpha was really trying he could have kept us there forever. Faster and stronger than even you, we didn’t stand a chance, even with Allison.”

There’s a quiet pause filled with the tapping of Stiles’ typing.

“I don’t think you’re wrong.”

Stiles barks a laugh. “Must be difficult to admit you think I’m right, even in the most roundabout way possible. Don’t strain yourself, dude.”

He can practically hear Derek grind his teeth.

“The janitor was found dead, hidden in the boiler room—”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles exclaims, whirling his spinny chair around so fast he feels a little light headed. “When? How did I not know about this? How do _you_ know about this?”

“I have a police scanner in my car,” Derek says, with a casual shrug of his shoulders like it’s the most obvious thing. “What I’m _trying_ to say is, maybe creating a pack wasn’t the Alpha’s _primary_ objective that night.”

Stiles narrows his eyes on Derek contemplatively. Another death, like the bus driver, the video store clerk and the two guys in the preserve. Laura’s death an outlier, the circumstances too different. The janitor was the Alpha’s target, and they happened to be there at the wrong time? No. The message to Lydia was too purposeful.

“A test. It was testing us,” he ponders aloud. “Wait. The message!”

“What message?”

He doesn’t answer Derek – who doesn’t seem to care either way – simply turns to his phone and sends a message to Lydia and Danny. **Wolfy emergency, my place, asap**. Danny had been filled in over the weekend. As expected his reaction was rather placid and with a quiet comment, “That explains a lot.” Telling people has been easier than expected and for the most part they’ve been rather cool about it. Maybe he and Allison just have weird friends.

“Why these people?” Stiles continues to use Derek as a sounding board and is surprised to note how natural it feels, utilising his stoic silence and his supernatural knowledge. “They’re not random killings, that’s clear from the premeditated set-up of Friday. So why is the Alpha targeting these people specifically?”

“It’s gone rogue. No sane werewolf would so recklessly draw this much attention,” Derek grouses, like he’s annoyed the thing is giving werewolves a bad reputation. Um, hello: snarly, bitey, out-of-control creatures of the moon. “It’s unnatural form makes that obvious.”

“It’s form is—” Stiles throws his hands up in frustration and leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. “You know what, that would have been good to know, dude. Can you stop keeping shit from me? I can help, you know. And I’d do a lot better job if I had all the information.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you.” He nods and grins broadly.

“Not a compliment.”

“Cop’s son. It is to me. Now, alpha werewolves don’t usually look this… dark and evil? Do they usually have like the full wolf shift like your…” Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, like Laura?”

Derek bows his head and shakes it. “No, that’s rare,” he answers so quietly Stiles has to strain to hear it. “And hereditary.”

Storing that information away for later, Stiles carefully moves away from the delicate subject of Derek’s family. “So most alphas just have a shift similar to the usual beta shift?”

“Red eyes. Stronger, faster, with a natural dominance over betas,” Derek lists.

“Except Ally! I assume you heard she resisted the Alpha.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but the exasperation seems surprisingly fond. “She was practically preening.”

“I know,” Stiles coos, wiggling excitedly. “So proud of our girl!”

“Our girl?”

“Yeah, our girl. We trained her with our mad Jedi Master skills.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise challengingly. “I trained her.”

“I helped! Wait, what’s her anchor? You guys never told me. Or is it, like, a personal wolfy thing I shouldn’t ask about? Like revealing your happiest memory for your Patronus? What’s your anchor? I bet it’s rage and manpain, all that brooding to keep you focused on being a grumpy ass.”

Derek scowls, mouth downturned with his best impression of grumpy cat.

“Oh, thank God, back to the non-verbal. You were talking so much I was worried you’d been replaced with a pod person,” Stiles says sardonically as he rises and walks to the door. “I’m gonna go break into my dad’s filing cabinet for the case files. Make yourself useful and go over those local newspaper articles again.” He points to his laptop and Derek growls innocuously at the instruction but reaches for it anyway.

Descending the stairs, Stiles makes his way into Dad’s office and picks the lock on the filing cabinet. With the help of the internet he’d taught himself how to pick locks last year after Dad caught him sneaking into the school to pull pranks on the teachers for the third time and decided to keep Stiles handcuffed in the backseat of his cruiser for the rest of his patrol shift. It was a _long_ , boring night. Never again. Took months to learn how to do it without damaging the lock. So worth it though.

Is it illegal to break into the sheriff’s open case files? Only if he gets caught. He should probably feel guilty about it, but it’s important. Dad can’t solve this one, he doesn’t know about werewolves and crazy alphas, so it’s up to Stiles to answer the big question and solve it. Who is the Alpha?

Back upstairs, with the case files in hand, Stiles finds Derek sitting back casually on his bed with the laptop resting on his thighs, shoes kicked off and ankles crossed.

“Make yourself at home, dude,” Stiles quips. Derek doesn’t even glance up at him. “So, you’re finally accepting my help then?”

“Reluctantly. Not convinced you’re helpful, except for access to the sheriff’s case files.”

“Oh, I see how it is, using me to get to my dad.”

Oddly, Derek flinches at the words and his brows furrow with a conflicted expression. His strong jaw works, the tendons and muscles twitching relentlessly and he looks like he wants to say something, dispute Stiles’ offhanded comment maybe, but Derek doesn’t respond. He locks his gaze onto the laptop and ignores Stiles.

Frowning, Stiles sets down the case files and starts meticulously going through them. They work in silence. Not awkward or comfortable. Just silence. After a few minutes Stiles loses himself in research and all but forgets Derek’s there.

 

* * *

 

The doorbell wakes Stiles from his research coma an hour later, blinking rapidly and stretching, a groan at the ache in his limbs accompanying the satisfying pop and crack of his joints. Glancing around he starts a little when seeing Derek on his bed before remembering why he’s there, though he surprised he’s stayed. Derek’s set aside the laptop and is now reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire from Stiles’ bookshelf. It shouldn’t be endearing.

“Didn’t find anything in the articles?” Stiles asks as he stands to go answer the door.

“Nope. Would have told you if I did.”

Stiles just nods, because yep, that’s Derek. Only speaks when absolutely necessary. And sometimes not even then.

Descending the stairs, Stiles opens the door to a beautiful visage. Lydia Martin, at his front door, looking incredibly gorgeous with her vibrant strawberry blonde curls and luscious lips painted a bright red. In the back of his mind there is a thrum of excitement in knowing she’s here but his forethoughts are filled with ‘I need your phone to track that message.’ Stupid supernatural crisis concentrated thoughts.

“I’m only here for Allison,” Lydia states pertly. It’s obvious she cares about Allison a great deal. Even if she tries to conceal it most of the time for whatever Lydia-style self-protective reasons. “I assume since you also asked Danny over that you’re going to be tracking the message the Alpha sent me. And stopping the Alpha will keep Allison safe.”

It feels like she’s setting ground rules, in case he’s going to try something. Lydia’s aware of his crush on her, it’s not like he keeps it a secret and is probably why Jackson hates him that little bit extra. But the fifteen year plan involves being with Lydia on his own merit, because she wants to be with him, because one day she’ll finally see him. Stiles would never take advantage. Opportunity, maybe. But with grumpy wolf up in his room this is the furthest thing from a good opportunity.

Stiles waves his arms around helplessly. “Good?”

“Good.”

Lydia nods and walks past him into the house. He leads her up the stairs and into his bedroom, internally freaking out about the state of his room. It’s messy, research and school printouts spread around, laundry on the floor kicked into the corner and action figures scattered across his room. Really, he should have known not to worry about all that because the biggest attention grabber is sprawled across his bed.

How does he keep forgetting Derek is here?

“Why is there a hot guy in your room?” Lydia asks immediately, eyeing Derek with interest.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, Lydia. Lydia, Derek,” he introduces half-heartedly, waving his arms around as he retrieves his laptop from beside Derek and flopping into his desk chair. “Derek’s on the run from crazy hunters who have it out for him. Presently, Allison’s family. He’s an asshole, so you’ll probably love him,” he adds quietly so that Lydia can’t hear his bitterness.

Derek growls all wolf-like, but it’s lazy at best.

Lydia arches an eyebrow at him. “Derek, as in Derek Hale. The werewolf who trained Allison?”

“I helped train her too,” Stiles protests, but Lydia isn’t paying him much attention. “But, yeah. Yeah, that’s Derek. Our resident grumpy wolf; all brevity and scowling and tall hair.”

“Huh,” Lydia says, tilting her head and regarding Derek critically. The single sound is so incredibly loaded with implication and just begging to be asked ‘what’s _that_ supposed to mean?’ But Derek narrows his eyes on her for a mere moment before going back to his book, completely unfazed by Lydia’s presence.

It’s strange watching Derek interact with people who aren’t Allison. With Allison it’s all hesitant wolfy pack connection, where he attempts to hide his affection for her behind terse conversations, carefully blank expressions and barked orders, and fails terribly. Stiles never considered that Derek could be _more_ dismissive of people than he is of Stiles.

But Derek doesn’t even seem uncomfortable or edgy, he seems to be trusting Stiles’ word that these people he’s brought into the fold are trustworthy. Which is… Stiles has no idea what it is or what it means.

“So he’s hiding out here from the hunters?” Lydia enquires, folding her arms over her chest as she collects all the information and processes it in her high-tech hard-drive of a brain. Stiles feels really good about having her on board. She’s a certifiable genius, having her on their side can only be beneficial. Also, having her around will help the fifteen year plan.

“Yup.”

“And he’s on your bed, why?”

Stiles glares at Derek. “Because he’s a naughty wolf and I can’t seem to train him to _not_ be on my bed.”

Derek bares his human teeth in a silent snarl.

“Kinky.”

Stiles splutters and gapes at Lydia, feeling his face heat. He doesn’t get a chance to babble out a long and rambling response because Danny walks into the room with Jackson on his heels. Seriously. What’s with people and just showing up in his bedroom?

“How the hell did you get in here?” Stiles asks automatically but Danny’s gaze moves straight to Derek.

“Why is there a hot guy on your bed?”

Stiles groans and scrubs a hand down his face. “Oh my _God_. Yes. I get it, okay? Derek is hot. Derek is molten freaking lava. Can we all please follow my example and just pretend his hotness doesn’t exist so we can get on with our lives?”

Sometimes he really wishes he had control of his mouth. He’s pretty sure, in the ensuing silence and considering the way everyone is staring at him like he’s crazy, that he disclosed way too much. Fuck. Maybe the whole barely sleeping because he’s been so focused on the supernatural crisis is affecting him more than he realises. Note to self: sleep more. Ha. Yeah, right.

“Are you having a fucking aneurism, Stilinski?” Jackson asks, smirking in amusement.

“First of all, nice to meet you, Derek,” Danny says, waving in his casually friendly way. “I’m Danny, this is Jackson. Second, Lydia texted to say the front door was unlocked.” Stiles scowls at her but she’s unsurprisingly completely unapologetic. “Third,” Danny continues, nodding his head in Derek’s direction, “hotness like that isn’t something you can ignore.”

Stiles snorts a laugh, because he’d thought the same earlier, and swivels in his chair to start up his laptop while Lydia and Danny eye-fuck Derek and Derek eye-murders them in return. It shouldn’t be funny. It is.

“It’s an intense kind of hot that’s very attention grabbing,” Lydia states rather analytically, scrutinising Derek once more. It feels more like she’s playing dress-up with him in her mind rather than actually showing any interest. “He needs to wear more blue, pale blue, or a dark green, to really bring out those eyes.”

“Oh, wow. I just noticed the eyes,” Danny says a little dreamily.

Derek looks like he doesn’t give a single fuck, his characteristic hostile glower flickering between them irritably like they’re wasting his very precious time with Harry Potter. But Jackson’s visibly bristling. “It’s not like you guys haven’t seen an attractive guy before.”

“Aw, guys, you’re bruising Whittemore’s over-inflated ego,” Stiles taunts easily.

“Fuck you, Stilinski!” Jackson snaps his usual retort. One would think he’d learn by now.

“Sorry, dude, pretty boys really aren’t my type.”

Derek huffs a laugh, a small, barely audible exhale of breath. Stiles squints at nothing for a disbelieving moment before spinning to stare at Derek, noticing everyone else doing the same in his periphery. When Derek glances up at them his frown deepens.

“What,” he barks defensively.

“Oh my God,” Stiles coos playfully. “Did you just laugh?”

Derek scowls, lips pinching in annoyance. “No.”

“You _so_ did! Dude, that was adorable. Look at you, trying to fit in with the humans. Precious.”

Derek growls, a warning sound that’s more animal than human. The others flinch or tense or look otherwise scared of the Big Bad Werewolf sprawled across his bed. Despite the threatening sound, Derek’s murderous gaze moves back to his book and he goes back to silently reading and brooding.

“Right you are, Sourwolf,” Stiles says, spinning back to his laptop. “Important serial-killing-Alpha matters at hand.”

“What exactly are we here for?” Jackson bitches.

“Well, Lydia’s here because I need access to her phone because the Alpha messaged her to lure her to the school, and I need Danny to hack into the telecommunications network to track the origin of the message.”

“Why would you think I could do something like that?” Danny questions.

Stiles swivels and narrows his eyes on Danny, tilting his head. “Don’t play coy with me, Māhealani. I looked into your records and found some interesting information about you sticking your digital fingers,” he wriggles his fingers for effect, “where they shouldn’t belong. So let’s put that rebelliousness to good use, shall we?”

Stiles pushes Danny towards the desk chair he’s vacated but he’s not budging, hesitant to admit to his misdemeanours. Why is everyone so much stronger than him? Life isn’t fair. Stiles groans, and is one moment away from waving the laptop in front of Danny’s face and saying ‘come on, Danny, you know you want to’ when Derek speaks.

“You have assurance Stiles and I won’t talk, because you know I’m a werewolf and Stiles just admitted to gaining illegal access to police files, and the other two are your friends,” he observes without looking up from his book. “You’re safe.”

Woah. Stiles gapes at Derek, because that… _that’s_ smart. Derek is smart. Not that Stiles thought he was dumb, but he never expected to think of Derek as intelligent and logical. It makes him stop and wonder, for the first time, what Derek was before all this craziness with the Alpha. What he was doing in New York before Laura was murdered and he started living in broody martyrdom. What he was like before he lost his entire family. What if he wasn’t always Sourwolf?

Okay. Stiles needs to stop. Imagining Derek as anything other than a ragey ball of manpain is making him lightheaded with the absurdity of it.

Apparently, and thankfully, that was enough to sway Danny. When Stiles zones back in Danny’s sitting at his desk typing away on his laptop and talking quietly with Lydia. And Jackson’s scowling at him.

“What do you want, Whittemore?”

Jackson’s tense, his pale eyes darting to Derek and his hand goes to his neck habitually. And then Stiles remembers. _That creepy guy that was with you guys at school, he cut the back of my neck._ Jackson clearly wants to ask about it, but is too proud and douche-y.

Stiles sighs and tilts his head. “Show me your neck.”

Hesitant, Jackson scowls, but Lydia gives him an encouraging look and he turns, pulling down his collar. Stiles’ eyes narrow on the four clear claw marks down the back of Jack’s neck, stepping closer to touch the irritated skin around the wounds. If this happened when Derek showed up at school with the wolfsbane infection… that was over a week ago.

“Jesus, Derek,” he hisses under his breath. Fucker couldn’t tell them about this? Stupid delirious werewolf probably couldn’t remember it. Stiles turns to the fucker in question, who seems to be purposefully ignoring them. “Care to explain this, Your Wolfiness?”

Exhaling an all-suffering sigh, Derek places the book on the bed and walks around to stand beside Stiles, avoiding his gaze the entire time. Ha, he knows he’s done something wrong. Petulant little shit. Derek’s fingers brush over the four vertical claw marks on the back of Jackson’s neck with more care than Stiles expected. His heavy brow furrows thoughtfully.

“It’s fine. It’ll heal eventually,” Derek says dismissively.

“The doctor said it’s aconite poisoning, but I’ve been having these weird nightmares…” Jackson murmurs quietly, a distant vulnerability in his voice as if he’s forgotten they’re in the room with him. “There’s a fire, people screaming all around me, I can’t breathe and we can’t escape—”

Stiles freezes, eyes widening and he notices Derek tense in his periphery, his expression shuttering and his eyes glazing over. All emotional shields up at full strength. Stiles knows that feeling well. Derek’s shields tend to be an array of scary silence though, where Stiles’ take the form of too much talking and poorly timed jokes.

Jackson seems to wake up to his surroundings and jerks away from them, nostrils flaring angrily with his embarrassment as he whirls to face them. Using anger to cover for any real emotion he might accidentally reveal.

He just put himself, Derek and Jackson in the same emotional masking category. There’s a terrifying notion he wishes he’d never realised. Fuck he’s tired.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Jackson hisses, tone accusing.

Derek meets his gaze with calm apathy that is actually ten times more frightening than his grumbly wolf snarling. “I was infected with wolfsbane when I scratched you. Wolfsbane is poisonous to humans, but since you didn’t ingest it directly you’ll be fine. It’ll just take time to work it’s way out of your system.”

“That’s why the Alpha ignored you at the video store,” Stiles speculates with certainty. “It couldn’t turn you because you’re infected with wolfsbane.”

Derek frowns. “Why wouldn’t it just kill him?” he says, far too offhandedly.

“It wants a pack.”

“Why teenagers though?” Jackson asks, his face scrunched into an incredulous sneer. “I mean, adults in positions of power, like the mayor and the sheriff, is where I’d go for my pack members.”

Despite the use of his father in this theoretical scenario where Jackson is alpha – God help whatever alternate universe where that’s true – Stiles tends to agree. Teenagers are, generally, in the process of finding their place in the world, and with hormones and awkward social situations such as school, they tend to be volatile. Add that together with being, partially, an out of control animal with super senses and copious amounts of sharp teeth and claws… it’s not a good combination. Unless you’re composed and mature like Allison. But even she struggles at times.

“The bite isn’t guaranteed to work, it can kill you if you’re not strong enough,” Derek explains, swallowing hard and glancing down at the floor, possibly having personal experience with it. “Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen is optimal for changing a human, when they’re physically at their most resilient.”

Stiles nods along and opens his mouth to ask a follow up question when Danny interrupts.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” Danny reports. “The phone number is registered to…” he trails off worryingly.

Stiles rushes over, scanning the screen over Danny’s shoulder. Outgoing calls and messages with dates and times and… There. Melissa McCall.

What.

“That can’t be…”

“It’s right,” Danny confirms, voice a mix of worried and resigned. “Melissa McCall. The message was sent from the hospital too.”

“As in Scott’s mom?” Lydia questions. Danny nods a confirmation.

Derek straightens. “Then she’s the Alpha.”

“No,” Stiles denies, shaking his head and facing Derek defiantly, as if reading to jump between Derek and Ms. McCall, not that he could actually stop Derek but he’ll sure as hell try. “I’ve known Ms. McCall since I was five. She’s not a werewolf. She’s certainly not the Alpha. This is… misdirection. This is something else. It has to be.”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Derek states, already in the process of pulling his boots on and slipping into his leather jacket. Stiles hurries to do the same, only with his dirty red cons and a red hoodie, and goes to follow Derek out of his room.

“Not without me you’re not!”

“Stiles, this is dangerous.” Derek whirls on him, making Stiles flail to stop himself from running face first into Derek’s… face. “If she’s the Alpha—”

“Ms. McCall isn’t the Alpha,” Stiles growls with annoyance. Why can’t people just listen to him? “Besides, you think you’re going to walk into a huge public building like the hospital without the hunters knowing about it? This is a reconnaissance mission. The squishy human is completely capable of reconnaissance, thank you very much.”

Derek eyes him dubiously. “You are the least stealthy person I have ever met.”

“He can pretty much talk his way out of anything though,” Danny says helpfully.

Stiles smiles. “Thank you, Danny.”

“Only because people get too annoyed to listen or give a fuck when he starts blabbering on,” Jackson adds. Unhelpfully?

Stiles’ smile only widens into a shit-eating grin. He’s proud of his ability to talk and Jackson isn’t wrong. People tend to zone out or get lost if he twists the conversation enough and he enjoys using that to his advantage. It’s amusing. And useful.

Derek sigh-growls. “Fine,” he grunts before disappearing down the stairs.

Grabbing his keys and wallet, Stiles gets to the door and glances at Danny, Lydia and Jackson who are still in his room. He really needs to leave. He can trust them, right? If he can trust them with the werewolf secret then surely he can trust them alone in his house.

“Lydia, bless your generous soul for the use of your phone. Danny, you’re a hacking genius and you get all the points. Spare key under the pot-plant on the porch, lock up before you leave,” he instructs hastily. “And before you even begin to plot any insidious pranks in my house, remember it’s the Sheriff’s house and he has a gun and handcuffs and a holding cell.”

Stiles walks away but only gets to the top of the stairs before marching back.

“And don’t go searching through my porn. Some things you cannot unsee and you _will_ be scarred for life.”

He smiles as Lydia rolls her eyes, Jackson grimaces and Danny snorts a laugh. With that final warning he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 **[08:01pm] Fr: Ally**  
_i cant, sorry, family dinner =/ please be careful_

Stiles sighs down at his phone. He feels like they’re fighting a battle on two fronts. The hunters on one side and the Alpha on the other. It’s not a good feeling. Would be easier if it were just one battlefront. Maybe an Argent is the Alpha, then it would only be one battlefront.

No. Wait. A practically military trained hunter with supernatural alpha werewolf powers? No thank you! Stiles shivers and wishes he could unthink that thought.

“Ally’s on Argent watch,” Stiles informs Derek, who’s looking twitchy and on edge in the passenger seat of the Jeep as they sit in the hospital carpark. “Anything on wolfdar?”

Derek turns his head very slowly to squint at him; his familiar ‘what does that even mean, idiot?’ expression.

“You know, wolfdar. Like radar, but for werewolves. Or, I guess, normal wolves too. But those can’t speak to tell me if their wolfy senses are tingling. Wait. _Can_ they?” Stiles questions curiously. Derek’s eyes are at risk of disappearing entirely under the weight of his deeply furrowed eyebrows and he doesn’t speak a single word. Choosing to make Stiles feel ridiculous under the tension of the silence. It’s working. Stiles fidgets and covers his discomfort with exasperation. “Ugh. Fine. Just tell me if you sense anything.”

“Nothing.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, his whole head following. “Helpful. Thank you,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Details, Derek!”

“There are people inside.”

Stiles narrows his eyes in annoyance and Derek obstinately and indifferently returns his gaze. They remain like that for a long time. Too long. Probably. Was Derek sent here by some devious deity to frustrate the ever living shit out of Stiles?

 _No, he came back because his sister, one of the last remnants of his devastated family, was murdered by an out of control alpha werewolf_ , Stiles reminds himself miserably.

Eventually Stiles gives up, groaning loudly and stumbling gracelessly out of the Jeep in a huff. One would think Derek could be more helpful considering how, earlier, he was concerned about sending breakable Stiles into the hospital. Maybe he really can’t sense anything out of the ordinary inside. Still. Stiles is a little nervous and could use a pep talk. Not that he believes Derek capable of such a thing. In fact, the mere thought is pretty fucking laughable.

“All right, Stilinski. You can do this,” Stiles tells himself as he approaches the main entrance. “You used to visit Ms. McCall at the hospital all the time. This is for her. Because she isn’t the Alpha and you will prove it to Grumpy Guts. And then you’ll find who the Alpha really is because you’re awesome. Best detective ever.”

People glance at him warily as he enters muttering to himself and he gives them a demented smile in return. Lila’s at the front desk and Stiles gives her a genuine smile, waving. Lila has worked with Ms. McCall for years and Stiles knows her fairly well from all his time spent at the hospital. Too much time spent at the hospital…

“Hey Stiles,” Lila greets with a warm smile. Stiles likes her because, unlike most of the others, she never looked at him with pity. “Scott’s not here if you’re looking for him.”

He shakes his head and leans against the desk casually. “Nah, I was actually looking for Ms. McCall.”

Lila eyes him playfully. “What for?”

“I won’t take up much of her time, I promise,” Stiles assures, raising his hands innocently. “I just have a quick question about Scott. He’s been acting strange lately and I’m a little worried about him.”

“Melissa was saying the same thing the other day,” Lila says. And yeah, probably Scott trying to deal with the whole Werewolves Are Real thing, it’s why Stiles went with that excuse. “I think she’s down in Long Term Care, want me to call her here for you?”

“Oh no, wouldn’t want to waste more of her time, I know the way.” Lila nods knowingly. “Thanks, Lila. Have a good night.”

“Bye, Stiles.”

He taps the desk and starts making his way through too familiar bright white corridors, on a too familiar route to the Long Term Care ward. There are people – Derek wasn’t wrong – he passes, doctors and nurses and patients, but Stiles sees none of them. Various noises of beeping machines and murmured voices coalesce into white noise, high pitched and grating on his ears, in his head.

His heart races as familiar sickening dread creeps through his body, black and thick and weighted. As it engulfs him he simply becomes numb, moving forward by sheer muscle memory, and everything around him passes in a blur of movement. Walls too white, lights too bright.

A sudden vibration against his thigh grounds him, reality hurtling back so quickly he feels dizzy. Stiles startles backwards at the feel of it, his heart slamming painfully against his ribcage before he realises it’s just his phone ringing.

“Fuck me,” he mumbles under his breath as he grabs his phone from his pocket, reads the ID as _Sourwolf_ and groans. “What?” he answers tersely, heart rate gradually settling to a more sedate pace as annoyance overshadows the near crippling anxiety.

“Your heart was beating too fast, but I couldn’t sense any trouble,” Derek explains succinctly through the phone.

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda on a reconnaissance mission and some asshole decided to call me whilst I’m skulking for clues and bad guys.”

“Before I called.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles dismisses, continuing down the corridor. “Wait, you’re close enough to hear my heart? I have to be at least eight hundred yards from the Jeep. Unless…” he glances up at the ceiling. “You’re not in the Jeep are you?”

“I’m on the roof.”

“Of course you are. Because that’s totally normal.”

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles. There is nothing ‘normal’ about me.”

Stiles snorts. “Wow. Modest much? If this is a comment about the length of your—”

“Stiles.” He can practically imagine the exaggerated eye-roll from Derek, made all the more expressive by those impressive eyebrows. “Wait, stop.”

Stiles’ heart rate kicks up a notch again, wondering what Derek is sensing, worried it’s dangerous and about to murder him at any given second. Why are there suddenly so few people in this hospital? When did it get all creepy? Scratch that, hospitals are always creepy. But usually there are more people around than the absolute zero he can see now.

Seriously where did everyone go?

“What? Is the Alpha here? Please don’t tell me I’m about to die,” he says, eyes darting frantically.

“No, the room you’re next to, 124,” Derek starts and Stiles stomach sinks hearing the number, glancing out the corner of his eye to see the closed door of the room in question.

“You know, it’s super weird you know my exact positioning,” he babbles aimlessly to force away thoughts of his mom’s smile and laughter, images of her withering away in that exact room. “Like, next level lurky, stalker shit, man. We really need to work on your social skills, especially the how-not-to-be-a-scary-creeper-who-doesn’t-understand-boundaries part. I think it’ll—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts him again, with a frustrated growl this time. “I need you to check inside the room for me.”

Stiles inhales a deep breath but makes no move for the door. He can’t.

“Why?”

“My uncle’s in there.”

“Your—what? How?” Stiles stutters, eyes wide with surprise and mind racing to process this information. Uncle. Derek has an uncle that survived?

“He survived the fire, barely. He’s in a coma. And here I thought you went through all of your dad’s files.”

Stiles frowns at the door. “Not all. I was young when the fire—I only remember my dad talking about it because it was in the local news and everyone asked about it. He didn’t like talking about it though…”

Silence falls between them. Understandable silence.

Stiles can barely stand being here again. Swore to himself he would never come back. Yet here he is, outside the room his mom died in. But it’s what she’d do, be here, bravely facing her fears for the good of the people she cares about. For the good of everyone. Strong, brave, fierce. Stiles can only hope to be half the person she was.

“Just check he’s okay,” Derek says eventually. “If the Alpha is here, my uncle might be in danger.”

Inhaling a steeling breath, Stiles raises his hand and turns the handle without giving himself a chance to hesitate. A chill runs down his spine at the sight of the darkened room, but as he glances around an unsettling fear seeps into his mind and consumes any lingering discomfort about his mother.

“He’s—he’s not here…” Stiles says, frowning, mind working.

There’s a pause on the phone, a silent beat in which both of them internally puzzle out this mystery. Derek gets there first.

“Stiles, you need to get out now,” Derek stresses, voice taut, sounding like he’s moving. “It’s Peter. Peter’s the Alpha. Stiles, go!”

Heart rabbiting in fear, Stiles turns on his heel to do exactly that and lurches to a halt at the sight of a dark figure lurking in the empty corridor. It makes sense why the hospital corridor is so suspiciously quiet now.

“Now, now, Derek. You know weak little human prey has absolutely no hope of escaping from predators such as ourselves,” a man Stiles can only assume is Peter mocks, voice light with amusement as his burnt face curves into a grotesque smirk.

Stiles drops the phone from his ear and backs away instinctively. Comatose, Derek said. Ha. Yeah right. Peter is up and about and looming terrifyingly, closing in on Stiles slowly, as if enjoying his fear and drawing it out for as long as possible. Isn’t it supposed to be cats that play with their food, not wolves.

 _Oh, God. I just referred to myself as food,_ Stiles laments. He’s going to die. He’s _so_ going to die. At least they know who the Alpha is now and Derek and Allison can stop him. The question is: Why? God fucking dammit, Stiles can’t die without knowing why! It’ll kill him! Oh wait, that doesn’t make sense...

His foot catches on a medical cart and Stiles falls onto his ass. Typical. Of course he dies like this, scrambling for something to do and coming up with nothing but backing away and falling into a clumsy heap.

Peter is a few feet away and closing in more quickly when Stiles’ vision of him is blocked by an intimidating, dark form. Derek stands before him protectively – again, Stiles reminds himself – his leather-clad shoulders squared and fully wolfed out with his claws extended, ready to attack.

“Hello, my dear nephew,” Peter greets with disingenuous pleasantness. “How nice of you to visit.”

A snarl rips out of Derek, low and threatening.

Peter tuts. “So impolite. I know for a fact your mother taught you better manners than that.”

Derek roars, the sound tearing aggressively through the air and reverberates deep through Stiles’ bones. He immediately launches himself at Peter, but Peter expects it, the sinister curl of his lips revealing the purpose of his taunt, lashing out to shove Derek back. Derek recovers quickly, bouncing off a wall and charging at Peter, tactless and reactive.

Stiles scurries away from the snarling blur of movement that is two werewolves fighting and struggles to his feet on account of being distracted and awed watching them. Unsurprisingly, Derek isn’t faring well against the more powerful alpha, whining and growling in pain as his blood paints the corridor. He doesn’t know what to do, glances around, searching, hands clenching and tensing needing to help. Feeling powerless.

Fingers fumbling for his phone in his pocket, Stiles dials Allison’s number; the only support he can offer, an ineffective and time-limited offer. He rushes down the corridor, away from the werewolves that will accidentally break him, and listens impatiently to the dial tone.

“Stiles, is everything okay?” Allison answers.

“No, it’s…” his voice gets caught in his throat as cold tendrils of terror creep down his spine. The corridor is deathly silent and Peter Hale is standing in front of him, burns healed and smirking. “Bad. Very, very bad.”

“Sorry, Stiles,” Peter says, taking the phone from his hand and ends the call. Stiles just lets him, not daring to move a muscle, as if faced with a wild animal. “Allison’s not going to get here in time.”

He instinctively tenses at Peter’s violent action, but he’s too fast. There is no explosion of pain or scream or flail. Just a suddenly all-consuming darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hairy Derek Hale is the only Derek Hale I will accept

**Author's Note:**

> contact me on [my tumblr](http://sarogane.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions or wanna chat sterek


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